


He's Got it Real Bad

by xindesum



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Big on Feelings, Brief mentions of other characters - Freeform, Canon Universe, Exes to Lovers, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, LT1, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Releasing Music, Slow Burn, brief mentions of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-08 22:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17989961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xindesum/pseuds/xindesum
Summary: In which Harry and Louis broke up two years ago, and they haven’t seen each other in over a year, until Gemma’s wedding. Things are different than before, to say the least, but life still manages to find a way to bring Harry and Louis together, even if it is just as friends. And if Louis was never able to get over Harry, well… that’s his problem.





	He's Got it Real Bad

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [Bella](https://dystopianharry.tumblr.com) for being the first person to read this and love it. All the love. xx
> 
> Thanks to everyone who supported me along the way, Becca, Shy, Angie, everyone from everywhere that told me to keep writing.

“YOU’RE INVITING THE WHOLE FAMILY!?” Harry chokes on his tea, coughing and spluttering as soon as he hears the news. He tries to stay quiet because he’s in _public_ , for God’s sake, lowering his head and hunching his shoulders as heads turn to see what the commotion is all about. “Gems, what the _fuck?!”_ he hisses to his sister, who sits across from him in the small cafe.

Gemma had invited the family of his _ex-fucking-boyfriend_ to her wedding. He curses her ability to make friends with everyone and anyone. If only she were antisocial, they wouldn’t have this kind of problem.

“Well, not _all_ of them, since I think most of them’ll be too young to really understand what’s going on. But I’ll be inviting Lottie and Fizzy and Louis,” she responds waving one hand around and brushes her hazel hair out of her face with the other.

“LOUIS!?”

“What about him?”

Harry shoots her a dirty look, because she knows what. She rolls her eyes and says, “Harry, you need to _grow up_. It’s been two years since you two dated. Get over it.” She pauses to take a sip of her own tea. He’s still glaring at her, lips turned down in a scowl. She sighs and rolls her eyes one more time. “If you want, I can invite Liam and Niall as well; I doubt Michal will be too mad about it,” she offers.

Harry sighs, slightly less irritated and irked as before, but doesn’t say anything, justifying his muted silence with a gulp of his tea and a bite of his croissant. He appreciates Gemma’s offer but doesn’t want to bother her. This is _her_ wedding after all, not his.

She’s not going to have to invite the rest of the boys just for him, because everything is going to be fine. It’s only one wedding - a few hours at the same event with Louis out of a thousand he’s had without him. He’s lived this long without Louis already; it’s not like he still misses him, or anything. Everything is fine. It’s been two and a half years since they broke up - not that Harry’s been keeping track, or anything like that - and more than a year since he’s last seen him in person.

He’s not hung up on their break up anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time. Therefore, it’s perfectly reasonable for him to be able to act friendly with his ex.

That’s why everything is going to be fine. The butterflies in his stomach mean nothing.

 

.

 

Louis is freaking out because Gemma Styles just invited him to her wedding.

He’s on the phone with Lottie, who’s speaking soothing words into his ear that mean little to nothing to his racing mind. His own words are high pitched and fast-spoken as he debates whether he should go to her wedding. It’s seven weeks away, with three weeks left to RSVP, but he also knows that he’s going to need every possible moment of those three weeks to decide whether he should go or not. Why? Because Harry’s going.

Oh, God.

He paces about in his house, gnawing on his fingernails as Lottie talks. The invitation lies open on his dining table, the words _Gemma and Michal’s Wedding_ written in a golden cursive. It taunts him.

“Go for Gemma; don’t even think about Harry. Just go and show Gemma that you’re happy and care that she’s getting married,” Lottie urges.

He can’t even remember the last time he and Harry spoke in person. It was probably at one of those music award events… probably courteous, most definitely awkward. Louis probably cried afterward. They were always busy - Louis with football and writing new music and charity events, Harry with touring and writing new music and acting. _Bloody hell, this man just has to be incredible at everything._

Of course Louis’ seen _Dunkirk_. He thought Harry was brilliant in it.

He is aware that he probably won’t even have to talk to Harry the entire time - or at all, to be quite frank -  but just the concept of having to be at the same place as his ex-lover makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He’s spent _way_ too long trying to forget about Harry and how he made him feel to be ruined by him again.

Louis is aware that he’ll have to confront Harry again eventually, especially once One Direction gets back from their hiatus, but the time for that to happen always seemed so far in the future. It never was supposed to happen two weeks from today at Gemma’s wedding.

After much talking and whining and panicking on the phone with both Lottie and Fizzy, who Louis is convinced have teamed up and conspired against him to ruin his life, Louis has finally made up his mind, with two weeks to spare, no less.

They had even brought up their mother during their coercion for fuck’s sake.

“Mum would never want you to be this distant with Harry! Think about what she said with Zayn! What do you think she’d say if she saw you and Harry in the middle of a tiff?” they had whined. Louis had pouted and stomped his feet. First of all, this wasn’t a tiff. Second of all, they’re not lovers anymore - hardly even _friends._ But, in the end, there’s no way he can argue with the spirit of his _mum_.

He finds his best suit - his navy blue one from Calvin Klein - to wear for the wedding. As he examines himself in the mirror, he’s got to admit - he looks dapper as hell. If this is going to be the first time he’s seeing Harry for the first time in a year, he supposes he should make an impression.

Maybe this isn’t going to be as bad as he thinks it’ll be.

 

.

 

The wedding itself isn’t bad. It’s held in a gorgeous church, with high arches and complex, beautiful architectural details. Lights and candles glowing a warm amber illuminating the whole room. The whole place is bustling with activity as family and friends chatter amongst themselves. Even Lottie and Fizzy have gotten up from their seats to greet some people, but they stay close by, much to Louis’ relief. As he sits in his seat, quiet, observing the scene around him, he feels out of place.

When Gemma walks in, she looks stunning, as always, in a long, white dress that flows behind her as she walks. The people, now seated, fall in a hush, like everyone’s holding their breath.  Her hair falls in beautiful ringlets around her glowing face. She looks like an angel.

No one can keep their eyes off of her or the groom, Michal, whose brown hair is styled in an effortless-looking quiff. He stands at the altar, fingers laced, shifting around like he can’t keep still, and dressed in a sharp, fitted black suit. It’s been years since Louis has seen Michal, and he’s got to be somewhere around thirty, yet somehow, he still doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.

He sits right in between his sisters and tries to keep his eyes on the couple at the altar. It doesn’t work. Because Harry sits three rows in front of him, hair a curly mess that falls just above his shoulders.

While the wedding had been a good time, the reception, on the other hand.......

To say that it is awful is a complete and utter lie; the reception itself is amazing. It’s fun, for fuck’s sake! The food is excellent, which Louis isn’t surprised by - Gemma wouldn’t serve anything less than the best; the music is decent; the drinks are good and there’s a large variety of them. All in all, everything isn’t so bad!

He’s been left to mingle and fend for himself for a bit, as close friends and family have been whisked away to take pictures and whatnot. Close friends had apparently mean Lottie and Fizzy, amongst other people, to Louis’ surprise.

He’s genuinely been having a good time, until he sees Harry, and his heart sinks a little in his chest.

He’s not sure why Harry isn’t taking more pictures. Maybe he’d just finished? Asked to go for a walk? To get some drinks? Perhaps he sneaked out. The possibilities are endless with this man. Whatever the reason is, Louis isn’t intrigued enough to ask.

Harry flits in between groups of people, greeting people with a handshake or hug and dives headfirst into conversations as if he’d been there the whole time. He nicks finger foods from caterers as he swims through the crowd with ease, and pushes his hair out of his face with big hands decorated with rings.

Louis forces himself to tear his gaze away from the man every time catches himself staring, ashamed that he’s getting so distracted while other people are trying to talk to him.

Harry’s grown up in these two years. He still looks familiar - almost the same, really - but there’s something about him that’s given him an aged, more mature aura. Louis kind of likes his new vibe, to be honest, and _oh,_ how he wishes he doesn’t. He wishes he could just look away and forget that Harry’s even here, but Harry’s like a star that shines too bright. Louis has been blinded and can’t see anything else.

He knows Harry’s spotted him when Harry’s eyes rove over the crowd of people and stare into Louis’ for just a tad too long, and his mind goes, _“Uh oh, SHIT,”_ but Harry’s expressions give nothing away. Louis rips his gaze away and excuses himself from the group of people he’s with, pushing his way through the crowd to get farther away from Harry, even though he knows he’s just being rude.

He’s got that icy feeling in his chest. He knew he shouldn’t have come.

By now, they’re allowed to go and mingle around. It’s cocktail hour, so Louis heads to go get a glass of champagne, downing it in one sip. His face scrunches up with disgust. _Gross_. But at least it distracts him from Harry.

He wishes Lottie and Fizzy were with him, but they’re still with Gemma, so he’s had to dodge Harry all by himself for the past thirty minutes or so. What kind of stupid _“close friends”_ bullshit is this? He’s pretty sure he needs them more than Gemma does right now; who else can he call upon to hide him from his ex-boyfriend?

Someone taps him on the shoulder, and he spins around, startled out of his sulking.

Of course, it’s Harry.

Who else would it be?

How did Louis even let Harry get so close to him? He’s been practically avoiding him all night; there’s no way Harry could’ve sneaked up behind Louis so easily. Yet somehow, with more stealth than Louis ever imagined he could possess, he did.

Everything feels so awkward. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, let alone his feet, as he faces Harry. He feels like a big buffoon.

Louis’ mind is racing with thoughts like, _What do I say to my ex-boyfriend/best friend of almost seven years after not seeing him for like, a year?!_  

“It’s, uh… it’s nice to see you again,” Louis finally manages to stammer out.

Harry’s got this crooked smile that barely reveals his dimples, eyelashes fluttering downward. _Jesus,_ he’s stunning. Louis is startled by how shy this man seems to be. He had forgotten about that. He looks away so he doesn’t have to stare at Harry’s dumb smile for any longer.

“Yeah, it’s nice to see you too,” Harry responds. His voice is deep and soft and slow and sends nerves running down his spine. Louis doesn’t look up, scuffing his dress shoes on the linoleum floor. He can feel Harry’s eyes burn holes into his scalp, but he forces himself to stifle his discomfort.

Harry seems like he’s glad to see Louis - always is - and Louis thinks he feels the same way. He can’t tell because he’s so _sosososo_ nervous and anxious and this entire encounter is just so overwhelming because Harry looks like he’s really grown up (25 is a good age on him), but Louis? He’s just… the same. He doesn’t think he’s aged as well as Harry has: he’s got eyebags and dark rings below his eyes and he’s lost some muscle now that he’s not playing football all the time. At least he shaved this morning. This is the time that he wishes that he put a little bit more effort into how he looks tonight.

“How’s everything going? Heard _Dunkirk_ was a major hit.” Louis gnaws on his bottom lip and hopes that that was the right thing to say. Harry’s smile grows bigger, so he couldn’t have said anything wrong.

“Yeah! I didn’t think it would get the reception it did,” Harry admits.

Louis rolls his eyes, lips quirked up in a tiny smile. “It’s a _Christopher Nolan movie_ ,” he reminds, “of course it’s going to get the critics ravin’.”

Harry sways a little bit, looking down as he shuffles his feet. He’s embarrassed; Louis knows this for a fact. “I know, but, like… it’s just kinda crazy, to think that I was able to contribute to something that the general public loved. Plus… Christopher Nolan, y’know.”

“That’s what we did with 1D, did you forget already?” Louis teases, nudging Harry’s shoulder with his own. Harry stammers out a denial that’s got Louis giggling at his obvious embarrassment. “I’m jus’ playin’, mate. No need to get all red about it.”

“Heeeeey, I’m not red,” Harry protests. Louis hums, a little _mmhm_ , that’s got Harry huffing.

“As red as a tomato.”

“You know, if you keep this up, I’m gonna walk away and leave you here all by yourself,” Harry threatens, but there is no malice in his voice.

“Oi, oi, that’s not the way to keep a man satisfied,” Louis laughs, grabbing another glass of sparkling water with his thin fingers when a caterer passes with a plate of them balanced precariously on one hand.

They talk for a while, following each other around as they grab more champagne and food while they converse. The conversation eventually gets easy as tension ebbs away - there’s a lot to catch up on and they still have enough chemistry to keep the conversation going. Louis doesn’t know why he was dreading coming to the wedding in the first place. They converse for what seems like hours, until Louis’ throat gets dry and sore from speaking and laughing for so long, even with the drinks he’s downed to keep his throat lubricated. By this point, Louis is pleasantly buzzed.

They stop talking to mingle with other people (more Harry than Louis, as this _is_ his side of the family), but they somehow manage to find each other afterward. They’re drawn to each other like magnets.

Louis’ sisters insist that he needs to talk to new people as soon as they see him with Harry, going as far as to insert themselves into their conversation to politely drag him away, explaining to a confused Harry that Louis’ presence is needed elsewhere. He protests that he _has_ been making new friends and talking to new people, and they roll their eyes. Still, despite their exasperation, he knows that they’re happy that he’s been catching up with Harry.

Talking to strangers doesn’t feel the same as talking to Harry, who used to know him so well that they could read what the other was saying with just a look. _Used to._

Louis is hit with the sudden wave of realization that he and Harry are practically strangers, that they haven’t had a proper conversation with each other in two years before tonight. They’re not _friends_ ; the most they’ll ever be after tonight is acquaintances. After this, they'll go back to their normal lives away from each other and never talk to each other again. And yet, there is still a certain sense of familiarity that clings on to Harry that helps him feel at ease. Is that wrong?

Every time Louis looks up when he’s around other wedding guests, he finds himself looking for that bunch of soft, brunette curls. He forces himself to focus on the conversation at hand, but the alcohol in his bloodstream and his preoccupation with Harry is making that extremely difficult.

But then Harry will look up too sometimes and they’ll make eye contact, and they’ll smile at each other, and Louis is stunned by the dimpled grin that leaves him warm and giddy, and Louis feels like he’s never left Harry’s side.

Shit.

He’s got it bad already.

Where’s his box of cigarettes?

The cocktail hour comes to an end, and Gemma and Michal are doing their first dance. Louis cheers for them along with everyone else in the room. They look dazzling. He banters a bit with the people next to him and tries - just for a little bit - not to think about the elephant in the room.

Louis is settled into his seat, sat across the table from his sisters, as toasts are being made to the newlyweds. And Harry rises, first to speak. And he straightens his suit and he opens his mouth. And it’s all eloquent and mushy and full of emotion and _of fucking course it is_ because he’s a songwriter and poet and musician and a hopeless romantic. And Louis has listened to his songs and he knows the power of his words and his voice. And maybe that’s why he finds himself tearing up a bit by the end of Harry’s speech.

Nothing eventful happens as they eat.

Louis isn’t expecting to catch the bouquet when Gemma tosses it, but he does. He’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to, but when the DJ had asked for all the single ones to come up on the dancefloor, he had picked himself up out of his seat, glancing around to see if any other men had come as well and bashfully combing through his hair. Lottie and Fizzy had dragged him up onto the floor with them.

He looks to his sisters, astonished and hugging the array of red, white and yellow flowers to his chest. Both of them are laughing at him and he scowls at them, even though they’re laughing too hard to notice. Then he turns to look at Harry, who has his eyebrows raised in humor.

He raises his eyebrows and the bouquet in acknowledgment before giving it to Lottie, telling her to keep it or give it back to Gemma, embarrassed by the whole ordeal. Lottie takes it after she sobers up and promises him that she will. Still, she lets a few giggles escape whenever she looks at Louis. When he makes a helpless look at Gemma, she just laughs hard and claps for him, looking radiant and beautiful in her white gown.

After that, the party goes a little more smoothly. He dances as much as it’s possible to dance in a suit. He makes sure to talk to a bunch of people because he can feel his sisters’ eyes on him, watching his every movement. He greets Anne, who catches him by surprise, with a kiss on the cheek and gets caught up with her life, as well as Harry’s and Gemma’s. She begs him to come to see her more often, and Louis’ heart melts.

“Are you sure? You know… me and Harry haven’t really been on speakin’ terms, and it’ll be a little awkward -” Louis starts, but Anne is shushing him, waving her pointer finger at him.

“That doesn’t matter, darling. I miss seeing your lovely face around.” She makes a point of pinching Louis’ cheek, and Louis’ smile grows. “You’ve always been like another son to me, you know that!”

He looks down, his grin getting small and lopsided. He knows how much Anne loves him, and his heart wrenches in his chest whenever he thinks about how he’s been avoiding all contact with Harry’s family.

He sighs and pulls her into a tight embrace. She squeezes him just as tight, until it’s got to be uncomfortable for both of them. “Alright, I promise I’ll come over soon,” he murmurs into her ear.

As they pull apart, she sends her love to Louis’ mum, and just that little sign of love makes him a little teary-eyed. They hug again and talk some more before their heart-to-heart exchange is interrupted when introduced to one of Gemma’s stylist friends who loves his hair, or whatever.

He isn’t really focusing on what the blonde is talking about, looking around the room while still trying to be polite and receptive. He laughs when she laughs, lets her play with his quiff, and jokes around with her. But despite all the attention he’s trying to give her, his mind is wandering elsewhere. He can’t lose himself in their discussion.

He spots Harry, who is making a beeline towards him. Harry’s eyes are focused on their target, brows furrowed in concentration. He gets knocked out of his odd must-get-to-Louis trance whenever he bumps into anyone on his path towards him, brows shooting up as he gives the person he pushed past his apologies and a quick smile.

Louis pretends that he doesn’t notice Harry coming over, forcing himself to try to give his undivided attention to the stylist. Despite all of his attempts of casualness, his heart rate is starting to pick up because he’s got these naughty things that are happening in his head that he _knows_ will never happen. He can’t help but hope anyway. It’s been too long since he’s gotten any action and it’s _Harry_ for god’s sake. Harry, who knows him better than any other person, inside and out, even though it’s been over a year since they last spoke, let alone touch each other.

But Harry isn’t his anymore.

Harry reappears by Louis’ side, placing a hand on the sleeve of Louis’ suit jacket to let him know that he’s there. Louis automatically steps back to let him in on the conversation and Harry squeezes in next to him. Their arms are touching, and Louis does his best to ignore it and think about everything else. Like Harry’s face, which brightens as he sees the stylist.

“Molly!” he exclaims, before pulling the woman in for a brief hug. Louis’ lips can’t help but pull down into a pout, a flutter of _something_ that tickles his chest and throat when he sees their big grins. Their laughter echoes in his ears. The feeling disappears when they separate, but Louis is still perturbed.

What the fuck is happening to him?

Louis lets Harry and Molly lead the discussion, stepping back from the talk to listen and let his thoughts wander for a bit. Harry is the perfect conversationalist. He listens to what she has to say and laughs at the right moments and chips in at the perfect time, even agreeing with the fact that Louis has got perfect hair to play with (in which Louis protests, “Hey!” and makes the other two laugh), and gives her his undivided attention. He hunches down a little bit so they’re all at the same eye level, but Louis knows that this is just something that he does out of habit. He maintains eye contact with Molly, glancing up at Louis every now and then, and Louis has to avert his gaze so Harry doesn’t realize he’s been staring at him this entire time instead of focusing on what Molly has had to say.

Louis wishes he didn’t notice these things about him.

The one time he looks up at him, Harry is staring back, eyebrows furrowed and pink lips pulled down in a slight frown. He cocks his head slightly. His lips form words that take Louis too long to understand.

_You alright?_

Louis shakes his in response and looks away, quickly dismissing Harry’s concern, tuning back into whatever Molly’s been talking about - shampoo for her blonde hair and best hairstyles for long hair for this season. After their brief, silent exchange he forces himself to pipe up more, joining in on their banter and jokes. However, through their laughter, he knows Harry’s still watching him. He sees his worried looks when his gaze flits over Harry, but there’s no need to fret. _Truly._

After that’s all over, Molly leaves to get another drink. Louis turns to face Harry, who’s gnawing on his lips. He shifts his weight between his feet, arms clasped behind his back as he shuffles around. Louis quirks an eyebrow, and Harry blurts out, “Do you want to dance with me for a little bit?”

Louis lets out a soft, breathy laugh. “Sure.”

The flutter in his stomach is hard to ignore as he lets Harry take his arm and lead him towards the center of the dancefloor. The DJ blasts music from all genres and eras, from ABBA (in which Louis freaks out and swats at Harry’s shoulder until he’ll sing _Dancing Queen_ with him) to Taylor Swift (in which Louis just _has_ to tease Harry about). Louis knows he must seem ridiculous, clomping about and moving as much as his suit will permit. He blames it on the fact that he can’t dance for shit. Harry isn’t doing any better than he is, constantly switching between going absolutely _batshit_ and an energetic sway. Louis laughs, loud and ringing, as he grabs Harry’s wrist to pull him closer until they’re dancing together, looking like absolute maniacs.

By the time it’s time for cake, Louis is tired and a little sweaty. He wipes the perspiration from his forehead and combs through his quiff with damp fingers to ensure that it’s still standing. Almost reluctantly, he and Harry make their ways to different tables. Harry sits with his sister, while Louis, after spotting Lottie and Fizzy just a little bit further away, heads straight for them. He settles in a seat across from the two of them, pointedly ignoring the shared look between them and their knowing smirks. They’re so annoying.

Louis makes sure to congratulate Gemma (again) on getting married and thanks her for the invitation. He’s had a wonderful time, definitely, but after the cake has been devoured and the music has been turned down low to not mask the quiet chatter amongst guests, Louis is ready to leave.

His sisters insist on staying for just a little bit more, so he caves and gives his permission. The car keys jingle as he plays with them, twirling them around his finger as he waits for them to finish up so they can take the long drive back home together.

He chats a bit with some people around him again, explaining his life and how, “Yes, you’ve probably seen me before; I was in a band called One Direction. No, we did not break up, we’re just on a hiatus and are looking to get back together in the next few years.” But he’s very polite, no matter how pressing the question may be and no matter how tired he may seem.

He hasn’t seen Harry in a while, and he can’t help but be a little disappointed at that realization. Their interactions today were just something casual, he reminds himself. It’s not like they’d ever get back together or anything, but still…

The possibility of that causes his heart to stumble.

It feels like hours before Lottie and Fizzy finally decide to go. He gives Gemma a great big hug again before they leave. His eyes scour the room for a certain curly-haired boy one last time, but there is no sign of him in the scattered crowd of people in the small venue.

 

.

 

He thinks about messaging Harry (since he’s never actually deleted his number from his contacts), but he doesn’t. As the days go by he doesn’t get a single message from Harry. He doesn’t message him first, and Harry doesn’t start the conversation, either, and maybe he’s starting to high hopes are starting to wilt.

Louis keeps checking his phone for text messages that aren’t there. With his constant nagging about unsent texts and the loud music pounding in his ears and the several drinks he’s already had, he finds himself distracted at the pub. He knows it, and his friends know it, too.

When they inquire, he’s too embarrassed to tell them the truth, so he stammers out a lie, instead: “I’m just… I’m waiting for a text from my manager about something…….”

He knows it doesn’t explain why he’s been acting so down in the dumps lately, but his friends stop asking after that because they’re such amazing lads. They move on to a lighter conversation, something about football that Louis would be (loudly) providing his input on if his mind wasn’t already preoccupied.

Maybe he _should_ make the first move. If Harry were going to, then he would’ve done it already, but he hasn’t yet. Maybe he’s waiting for Louis to text first. He’s had a couple of drinks - enough to make him feel braver than he should. He still has Harry’s phone number, and he toys with the idea of messaging him on Whatsapp, especially if Harry’s not in England at the moment, because he’s always traveling for work or music or for fun (that bastard), and Louis does _not_ want this month’s phone bill to be ridiculously high.

That was one of the reasons why they didn’t work out, Louis remembers with a twinge in his sad, tipsy heart. Neither of them had loved to be away from each other for too long, but the constant chasing each other around the world, sneaking into hotel rooms and venues to avoid the public eye, had been taxing to their physical and mental health. It was better to be apart than to stay together.

He knows which songs off Harry’s album are about him. He’d never admit it, but he does. Louis used to listen to them on repeat when they came out, treasuring the sound of his voice and missing him more than he should. He knows he shouldn’t feel the way he does about Harry’s songs, but there’s something charming about having such a big star like Harry Styles write sad love ballads about him and their heartbreak. At the same time, it makes him wistful and empty and lonely. So fucking lonely.

Shit, maybe he _is_ a little too wasted.

Louis is feeling lonesome and gloomy and just wants to talk to Harry, so he pulls up Whatsapp on his phone. If any of his friends looked over, they’d catch him dead in the act of drunk texting his ex. Something deep inside him knows this is a bad idea; his friends would tell him that if they were paying attention to him. But they’re not, and Louis’ mind isn’t functioning at a hundred percent and he can do whatever he wants without getting reprimanded, so he’s going use all of that to his advantages.

He texts like something like this:

“ _hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.”_

And then he deletes all the _i’_ s but 4 and sends it and turns off his phone. He gets a response almost immediately. The phone buzzes next to his arm as the screen lights up with a new notification.

“ _Hellooo_ .. _”_

Louis is kind of surprised but at the same time, he’s not, because it’s Harry fucking Styles and he is _great_ at answering people promptly, like everything else he does. Of course, he is; he’s bloody perfect, after all.

They text all night - Louis, drunk and often incomprehensive and sending texts full of typos; Harry, cordial and patient and too good for Louis, something that Louis used to bring up often.

Louis looks up from his phone after a few minutes. His friends shoot him weird looks; some of them have their eyebrows raised in a sort of exasperated look, while others have their brows furrowed, lips pulled down in a distasteful frown. Louis’ wide smile fades from his face. He isn’t even sure when he started smiling, to be honest, but his cheeks ache from the intensity of his grin when it falls.

“What?” he demands, “I’m bloody _fine_ , mates.” They give him another look before returning to their discussion, leaving Louis alone with his phone.

 _“lollll my frinds think im’ weird or sumamt bc i kepe smiling at my phone hahhadllol,”_ he texts Harry.

_“Lol what would they say if they knew you were texting me?”_

_“tel me to quit textin my ecboyfrien. proalby”_

_“Would you?”_

_“no waaayyy lol this is to mcu hfun”_

There is no hesitation in his response. Sober Louis would probably mull over the question, at least just for a little bit, before answering, but Drunk Louis is in control of their mind, and Drunk Louis knows what he wants, even if Sober Louis doesn’t.

They talk about the wedding, about music and songwriting, about how Louis might be a little tipsy (but it got them talking again, so cheers, he supposes), and about everything and anything else they can think of.

Louis finds it in him to ask about any significant others, to which (and to his surprise) the answer is “ _None, not for a long time.”_

_“not evn the modle??”_

“ _Camille’s just for publicity. You know how it is sometimes.”_

And yeah, that hurt, but he does know how it is, even as drunk as he is. Because he’s still trapped in his own little stunt for who knows how much longer. His contract says just a few more months, just like it’s said for the past few years, but things always come up, and the contract is renewed or extended, and he’s shoved back in his closet, duct tape slapped over his mouth. It’s not like he hates every minute of it; there are _some_ perks to being considered straight, like the fact that he isn’t defined by his sexuality by the media like other queer artists are, as well as the acknowledgment that he gets to keep _some_ things to himself. He’s just glad that this contract isn’t his entire life.

Except for the fact that it kind of is. Fuck.

Just thinking about his contract leaves Louis in a foul mood, but it quickly dissipates when his phone lights up with another message.

_“Sorry if I shouldn’t have said that; I know you don’t like talking about it.”_

_“lollll tis fine its onyl the truth right??????????_

_“but yea it rly sux hahahhaashhahhashdkfm. but teh conrtracts almsot over soon tho?”_

_“Another few months, but try not to tell anyone else.”_

_“u have ym word hazza”_

And after that, Harry stops responding and Louis is freaking out because, “SHIT I just called him Hazza,” and he hasn’t called him Hazza in fucking _YEARS_ and by now his friends know that he was totally lying to them and that he wasn’t talking to his manager. They call him out for his lies and he word-vomits everything up as fast as his intoxicated mind can spit out the words, explaining how they were able to do some catching up at Gemma’s wedding and how Harry’s really grown up, and he’s rambling on and on and on about how good Harry’s hair looks and how green his eyes look and how he smelled like fucking pomegranates, and he _knows_ he’s talking too much, but his friends don’t stop him because they’re all really good people that Louis doesn’t deserve, especially in times like these, where he’s hammered out of his mind and drunk-texting his ex.

He never once mentions Harry’s name, but his friends all know who he’s talking about. Who else would it be?

Instead, they just heave a collective sigh. Louis is surprised that they’re not trying to talk some sense into him, but he supposes that the damage has been done already. There’s no point in trying to help him. Someone at the table orders another round of beer for everyone.

The people around him give him a look that says either, “Have you really done this to yourself?” or, “Don’t fuck this up,” (he can’t really tell, to be honest) but he ignores them and their dumb looks, because he knows that he can like Harry again without screwing it all up. So, instead of listening to whatever his friends are trying to tell him, he takes a few large gulps of crappy beer. Louis leaves the pub later that night, horribly inebriated, sad, and feeling sorry for himself.

 

.

 

He’s still writing songs, no doubt about it, sometimes for other artists, sometimes for himself. He takes pride in his work, however he’s not proud about the fact that he’s already written one about Harry, two weeks after their last encounter and after _years_ of trying to avoid it.

His new love ballads are different than what he usually writes, which are normally full of distortion and angst and bordering pop-punk. But these songs are slower and softer. They’re made of acoustic guitars and set at a slow pace of 80 beats per minute, focused primarily on the crooning of Louis’ voice. He hopes no one will notice.

It’s been a couple weeks since they started talking again. They text well into the night sometimes, until the bright light from his phone sting his eyes in his dimly lit bedroom and he’s forced to take a break from his electronic devices. It’s not much - neither of them really have the time to be on their phones for long periods of time - but for now, it satisfies Louis’ hunger for more.

He knows he’s being ridiculous. Of course, he is. Because who falls for the same person twice? Idiots; that’s who. Bloody, stinkin’ idiots.

But whenever he closes his eyes, he sees Harry’s dump dimples that are deep enough to sink Louis’ finger in and Harry’s dumb green eyes that always keep eye contact for too long and Harry’s dumb big hands that engulf every part of Louis’ body that Harry holds and he thinks about everything they had and were and… fuck.

Louis takes a deep breath. He needs to calm down.

 _It’s just a little crush_ , he tells himself, scolding his heart. _That’s all it ever will be_. Everyone gets crushes, and almost all of his crushes have turned out to be something fleeting. Nothing will ever come out of this. Ever.

 

.

 

They end up getting coffee a few days later at some obscure coffeehouse. He frets about his outfit for at least twenty minutes, putting on combination after combination of shirts, jeans, and shoes to find the combo that he likes the best. He doesn’t want to seem like he tried too hard for their meeting but still wants to look presentable, especially for Harry. His stomach is churning with nerves as the minute hand of his clock gets closer and closer to the time he needs to leave. In the end, he decides on a pair of light blue ripped jeans and a soft, black sweatshirt that he’s _knows_ Harry likes because it shows off the tiniest amount of his chest if he pulls it down enough. He thinks he looks at least _somewhat_ cute.

Louis is pretty sure no one will give him shit about hanging out with his ex, just because no one knows about it - he hasn’t even told his sisters (even though totally he should, because they always tell him everything). The only people who even know that he and Harry are talking again are his friends from the pub, and most of them were too hammered to really remember what the conversation was about.

Regardless, he keeps his face covered with sunglasses and a cap because he knows he’s still famous - even if he is less well known than Harry. He knows there are still fans out there, and maybe it’s been almost four years since One Direction played in front of a crowd, but that doesn’t mean that they’ve lost their popularity entirely. Just because he’s kept himself on the down-low doesn't mean he doesn't get swarmed every now and then when he goes out, and he knows it’s the same with Harry, who gets papped doing the most miniscule duties. Maybe meeting up in a public place is a bad idea.

His heart is beating _fastfastfast_ as he walks to the cafe. He knows everything he’s feeling is unreasonable - after all, it's only two friends meeting up to see each other after a year of not talking. This is just two friends catching up. That's all it'll ever be. He knows of this but something inside him wants it to be more - want _them_ to be more.

When he gets there, Harry’s already there. It doesn't take long to find him; it’s not like Louis has spent the good part of seven years memorizing everything about this man.

He feels startled by the other boy. His tongue is heavy in his dry mouth. His fingers are tingling because Harry looks like a bloody god and he’s doing nothing but _sitting there_ , looking at his phone.

Everything about Harry is so familiar to him. He gets a couple glances and wide-eyed stares as he makes his way towards Harry, pretending like the back of his neck isn’t tingling under the attention.

Harry doesn't even try to cover up himself up like Louis has done, proudly telling the world who and where he is. His sunglasses sit on the top of his head, on top of those gorgeous and unruly dark chocolate curls. Louis feels a little ridiculous compared to him, like he’s underdressed, but maybe that’s just because Harry always looks good, while Louis… well….

Louis takes his sunglasses off and sits down across from Harry. Conversation flows easily, as it did during Gemma’s wedding. Louis tries his best to ignore the lump in his throat and act as casual as Harry seems, but it’s hard sometimes. Harry’s as vibrant as always. Gorgeous, as always. Entrancing, as always. No one interrupts them, but Louis keeps his hat on, just in case _is_ taking pictures of them.

They head to the incredibly short queue together after claiming their table. He knows there’s no reason to feels so self-conscious, but he pulls his cap down to shelter his face, shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweater and keeps his gaze down, even when Harry talks to him. He does nothing but nod and murmur in response, unable to do more than that under the watchful eye of the public. He shifts his weight to his other foot, leaning his body away from Harry when all he really wants to do is hide behind the taller man and make him protect him.

When they get to the front of the line, the barista’s eyebrows shoot up high, and Louis prays to God that she doesn’t tell the Internet about the two of them. He beckons for Harry to go first with a wave of his hand, glancing down at menu on the wall to makes sure he’s got his order right.

“Can I have a small peppermint mocha latte and a veggie flatbread?” Harry asks. His voice is a deep, slow rumble that Louis will never be able to get enough of. The barista nods hastily as she punches in his order, Louis plays with the strings of his hoodie as he stares at the counter in front of them.

“And for you, sir?” the girl asks, directing her attention to Louis.

“I’ll er, I’ll have a chai tea latte, please, and a turkey club sandwich,” he replies, and she nods as she notes down his order as well.

“Will you two be paying separately or together?”

“Separate,” Louis says.

“Together,” Harry says at the same time. They glance at each other. Harry’s lips quirk up and Louis has to raise his head extra high to look up at Harry thanks to his cap. It’s probably the first time he’s looked at him since they’ve left their table.

“I’ll pay for you,” Harry offers. He’s still looking at him, gaze set. There is no look of apprehension or worry on Harry’s face. It hurts to breathe as Louis’ lungs constrict in his chest, but he doesn’t break their eye contact.

“I can pay for myself, you know,” Louis points out. He’s already reaching for his wallet in his front pocket, but Harry places a hand on Louis’ other arm and he falters. Louis looks back down. “Alright,” he finally concedes, “but you’re letting me pay next time.” Harry chuckles, and Louis takes it as an agreement.

They head back to their table in a back corner of the coffeehouse only when the barista promises to bring their orders back to them.

“Still getting tea, like always, eh?” Harry asks, giving Louis a shove on the shoulder.

“Oi, oi,” Louis warns, but there is no heat to his voice. He leaves it at that, though, because he can’t find it in him to tease and play along. He feels absolutely awful about his behavior once they’re back in the privacy of their table. He can’t even force a smile on his face. He knows he’s being ridiculous, but he can’t help it.

He’s terrified of getting pictures leaking from their interaction, but hopefully, their seat will prevent fans from seeing them. He knows how big this’ll be for their fans, to see their “boys” alone together for the first time in _months_ . He doesn’t want to reignite the whole _Larry_ rumours again; they’ve been dying down recently thanks to the lack of activity between the two of them. He knows how much these rumours will hurt him in the future, but for the first time in months, he feels _fine_.

He hates being in public. He hates being famous.

“Sorry, I’m just…” Louis sighs and runs a hand over his face. “I don’t know what got into me, I guess I’m just not used to this.” He plays with his fingers over the table, unable to meet Harry’s gaze.

A warm, big hand covers his, and he stills his incessant fidgeting. He raises his head to look at Harry, who’s staring at the table where they’re touching. Louis’ arms feel like they’re going numb. His internal organs are doing twists and flutters.

“It’s hard,” Harry says, soft and low, “being the two of us. When I first offered to get coffee, I didn’t think about what other people might say. I didn’t think about management and what kind of shitstorm this could cause if anyone found out. Sorry.”

Louis’ lips quirk up. “It’s alright. I’m sorry for overthinking this, but I really have had a great time,” he admits. “It was great catching up to you, I’m sorry for being a burden.”

Harry squeezes his hands, both of them using only one of his.

“Hey, hey, you haven’t ruined the mood, and you’re not getting rid of me just yet. We haven’t even gotten our meals yet!” Harry gives him a small grin, and Louis kicks him under the table. “Ow,” Harry whines, but he shrugs it off with a laugh.

Their moods rise significantly after that, and they part with the promises of meeting up again sometime soon.

Louis’ heart has never felt both heavier and lighter than now.

 

.

 

He makes the decision to tell Lottie and Fizzy about his not-date with Harry Styles, only because he’d rather be the first to tell them about the not-date, rather than them finding out from fans. They - as expected - throw a fucking FIT. They’re freaking out, but he’s not sure about what. He can’t figure out whether they want him to rebuild his friendship with Harry or to cut off all ties with him because he can’t tell what they’re blabbering on about. Lottie and Fizzy are talking hurriedly amongst themselves, incoherent chatter interrupted by squeals of excitement or whatever.

_Girls._

But Louis is engulfed in a hug, with both of his sisters gushing about how much they love him and how they know he’ll make a good decision.

Apparently, it was the good type of freaking out, not the bad type, like he was dreading.

He laughs and hugs them back as properly as he can with the two of them squishing his arms to his sides. God, he loves them both so much.

He writes another song about Harry when he’s in the studio later that week, singing softly about a love, once gone, but is now found again. It’s sappy as shit, but he loves it anyway, and it easily becomes one of his favorite songs that he’s ever recorded.

Another week later, Harry ends up in his house, watching the Chelsea vs. Manchester United match in the middle of the afternoon on Louis’ TV. Harry has promised to make dinner for the two of them earlier that day, so Louis is looking forward to that. He himself has never been much of a chef. (Plus, Harry looks really fucking hot when he’s cooking.) They grab some cold beers and chill on the couch, talking about song ideas as they television hums in the background.

He’s not sure how they ended up like this, with Louis’ legs on top of Harry’s, which are propped on his coffee table, shoulders _this_ close to touching as they lie on the couch. By this point, the match on the TV has long been forgotten.

“You can’t say that,” Harry scolds him with a swat to Louis’ thigh.

Louis cackles and hits him back on the arm. “It’s true, mate; even _I_ know how bad the Mets are and I don’t even _watch_ baseball!”

“I can’t _not_ like them, though, you know I always gotta vote for the underdog.” Harry pouts and takes another swig from his beer, draining the bottle empty. He makes a move to get off the couch before pausing. “I’m gonna get another beer, d’you want one more?”

Louis shakes his head, “I’m alright, thank you though.”

Harry shrugs as he gets up. “Suit yourself,” he says. His hand combs his long hair out of his face, rings gleaming through the darkness of his curls, and Louis can’t stop watching him. Harry is so unaware of how attractive he is, despite the abundance of people telling him so on a daily basis online. His humility is overpowering. It’s hot.

“So, I was wondering,” Harry starts as soon as he sits down, “what shall we have for dinner?”

Louis splutters because he forgot that Harry was going to do that. He checks the time, and it’s almost seven o’clock. Holy shit, he can’t believe they’ve been on the couch for that long.

“Er…” Louis doesn’t even know what he has in his fridge. He plays with his fingers instead of answering. Harry must know what he’s thinking because he chuckles and gets up again.

“I’ll go check what you have. I should’ve brought some stuff over beforehand,” he teases.

“Heyyyyy,” Louis whines and flails out a kick to Harry’s legs, who’s laughing again and wandering back into the kitchen.

Harry must’ve found some edible ingredients in his fridge because he doesn’t come out for a while. Louis wanders into the kitchen, wondering where his friend has gone. Harry’s chopping red bell peppers on the counter on a cutting board that Louis didn’t even know he had, adding on to the growing pile of chopped vegetables beside him. Louis doesn’t remember having that many vegetables in his fridge.

“What’re you makin’?” Louis asks, leaning his body against the wall by the stove.

“I was thinking… how about sautéed vegetables with pasta?” he offers. Harry looks at him from the side of his eyes. His gaze is low and heavy and it sends tingles down Louis’ spine that shouldn’t be there because all he’s doing is making dinner and _Oh my god this was a bad idea._

“Y-yes, that… that sounds r-really good,” Louis stammers out hastily. His cheeks burn. He probably looks like an idiot, flustered because Harry asked him a question.

If Harry notices, he doesn’t say anything. All he does is give him a wide, dimpled smile that makes Louis’ heart stutter and swoon and returns to his cooking duties.

As Harry cooks dinner, Louis sets the table, reminding himself to take an extra cup and set of utensils for Harry. He hasn’t set the table in so long, probably since his last date at his home with… well, with Harry. He considers setting a candle in the middle of the table just for laughs, but he doesn’t want the other boy to get the wrong idea.

“Need any help Ha… rry?” Louis calls from the dining room. He curses himself for almost slipping up and calling him Hazza. Because he’s not Hazza anymore. At least, not to Louis.

“No, I’m alright!” Harry yells back. “Just go sit down, I’ll bring dinner out when I’m done.” Louis does what he’s told, and pulls out a chair to settle down at his table. He feels like a guest at his own house. It’s unfamiliar but kind of nice at the same time. He’s not sure when the last time someone’s done this for him, and it sends a pleasant thrill down his back.

He hums to himself, fingers tapping on the black wood of his dining table as he awaits his dinner. His stomach is starting to rumble, but luckily, he doesn’t have to wait for long; Harry brings the pasta to the table on two ceramic white plates just moments later. It’s still steaming as his plate is placed in front of him.

“Dinner is served,” Harry says in a terrible French accent that makes Louis giggle.

“ _Merci_ ,” Louis answers back, lips curved up in a small grin.

He waits for Harry to settle in the seat across from him before picking up his fork. Harry does the same.

“ _Fuck_ , this pasta is really good!” Louis exclaims. His mouth is watering at the taste of it. He hasn’t tasted a homemade meal as good as this in a long time. “Please come cook for me more, oh my _god,_ I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything as good as this,” he groaned, forcing himself to slow down and savor the taste.

Harry laughs, and if it weren’t for the flush on his cheeks, Louis wouldn’t be able to tell that he was embarrassed. “Thank you,” he says, grin wide as he plays with his pasta with his fork.

They eat in relative silence after that for a little while, forks clinking against the china, the sound of chewing rubbing Louis an awkward way. He’s itching to say something, but he doesn’t know what. His mouth is full of food, and Harry seems like he’s in no rush to do anything about the lack of words between them. He suppresses his nerves for as long as he can, legs and arms feeling jittery, until he can’t stand the quiet for any longer.

“What made you want to audition for _Dunkirk?”_ he blurts out and then internally slaps himself because he already knows the answer from watching too many interviews. Instead, he just shoves more pasta into his mouth to prevent more stupid things from spewing out of his mouth.

“I dunno,” Harry admits, “I just needed something to take my mind off of music for a bit. I figured that acting would be something nice to delve into, so I took a shot. And it did. Take my mind off of music, I mean. It was like this break that I felt like I deserved after One Direction.” His voice quiets down, and Harry gazes down at his pasta. He hasn’t taken another bite since before he started talking, Louis notes.

He knocks his foot against Harry’s leg under the table, and Harry looks up at him, eyebrows turned up.

“I think you were amazing in it,” Louis says softly. “And I’m not just saying that because you’re my friend. And you deserved a break, like you _genuinely_ deserved one. I think you made the right choice.”

Harry’s lips quirk up. He wraps his feet around Louis, intertwining their legs. Louis gives him a small smile back.

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs. He’s still looking at Louis with that dumb gaze that makes his stomach flutter and twist and Louis needs to break this trance before he turns into butterflies.

“Hurry up and eat your pasta,” he scolds, “it’s getting cold!”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Okay, _Mum_ .” His eyes squint in mirth as he scoops pasta into his mouth. The atmosphere in the room is… different now. It’s got something to it that makes the whole situation feel so domestic all of a sudden, and Louis can’t help but think that this is what they might’ve done if they’d stayed boyfriends. The word _Hazza_ rests on the tip of his tongue for the entire day, but he doesn’t say it a single time.

 

.

 

His friends don’t have to know that he’s been hanging out with Harry again. They have, however, caught on that there is _something_ that’s going on with him; Louis is so full of energy these days - more than he has been. It’s like he’s been dragged out of whatever bad rut he’d been in for the past few months, and a lot of his newer friends are surprised to see this “new” side of Louis. He’s laughing at their jokes and pulling pranks on them again, hiding slime in their cabinets and knocking on their doors at three in the morning to play rounds of FIFA after a night out at the club.

He jokes that it’s all the weed he’s been smoking in his downtime, and they all laugh. Louis doesn’t know whether or not his friends know that he’s kidding, but he can’t care less about what his friends think about what’s happening with him. Because all that matters is that they’re having fun, right?

Fizzy and Lottie tease him about his recent happiness, singsonging about how “you just wanna kiss hiiiim!” and “our little wittle baby bwother is falling in love again!” but he swats them away and gives them the middle finger, telling them to “oi, drink my piss!”. But even as they leave him alone to suffer from his nagging thoughts about Harry, he can’t help the smile that grows on his face. He’d never say it in front of them, but it warms his heart to see how much his sisters care about him.

Everything feels good for the first time in a while.

 

.

 

Louis finds himself in the studio writing more and more these days, trying to find the right words that won’t give everything away - not just about Harry, but also about the things he hasn’t ever talked about. He writes sad songs, disguised as ambiguous pop-punk tunes, about the impact of the death of his mother, about being someone you aren’t, about the tar building up in his lungs but he can’t fucking stop because he craves the tranquility it gives him, and about his life if he had it his way. Once the pen hits the paper, he realizes, he can’t stop.

There’s so much that’s been repressed in his 27-year-old soul that needs to be released.

These several years after One Direction have felt aimless for him, like he’s been drifting in a vast ocean of lost ambition. It’s not like he hasn’t been doing anything this entire time. Some days, in fact, it feels like he’s done it all, being a former X Factor judge, releasing and performing hit singles, winning awards, and he’s even writing every now and then….

There’s just something missing.

He can feel it in the pit of his gut. An album is imminent;  he can see it clear as day. But as of now, it’s not perfect. Perhaps it will never be. It’s a Claude Monet puzzle made from pieces that don’t fit.

.

 

His manager insists that he should go out with his “girlfriend” and take a vacation to Cuba or Cancun or wherever for a week and take a break from writing. Louis will admit - a vacation _does_ sound nice, and he can tolerate his “girlfriend” enough to be able to relax on a warm, sunny beach in a foreign country where he won’t get mobbed by fans all the time.

As inclined as he is to agree, he has to pause to consider it; the proposition just doesn’t sound that appealing to him. It’s been months since they’ve made a public appearance anywhere, and the general public is speculating whether they’ve broken up or not. (Little do they know that they’re not actually dating, nor have they ever.) The right thing to do is hop on a plane to who-knows-where and act like the paparazzi isn't being paid to stalk his every step, but when has Louis ever done what people want?

There’s something about the skepticism that his girlfriend is real that makes him feel a little more rebellious. He clenches his jaw to prevent anything ridiculous from spilling out of his mouth. All he wants to do is to beg to be let free from this contract so he can finally be himself. So he can finally be free. (So he can finally stop hiding Harry.)

His manager must take his silence as contemplative thought because she continues on with a smile.

“Just go out with her for the week. It’s only seven days, and keep in mind that you don’t have to be with her in every waking moment, just when you guys are going out. The public just needs to think that you guys are in love,” she points out. When Louis makes a grimace, she adds, “You don’t have to kiss her; just hold her hand and look like you’re having fun.”

Louis groans and scowls. “Fine,” he grumbles, “But I’m cutting back your salary by 5 percent after this.”

His manager actually _laughs_ (that bastard) and pats him on the back. “Deal. Now go out there and stunt! I’m booking your flight for Tuesday, so you’ve got two days to pack and enjoy your short-living freedom.”

There are days when Louis just wants to smack her. This is, as it seems, one of those days.

Louis is in a pissy mood the entire drive back home, tempted to honk at anyone who tries to cut in front of him on the freeway. He’s attempted everything he can think of to calm himself down: deep breathing, clearing his thoughts, rolling the windows down and blaring his music, but none of it helps. No matter what he tries, he can’t keep his feelings in check.

As he sits behind the steering wheel of his car, slowed down by the onslaught of traffic, his thoughts begin to race. What would people say when he comes out as gay after spending almost four years with his supposed girlfriend? They’d despise him for lying to them for so long. Would he even be allowed to say that he was forced and intimidated into the closet, even when he’s been wanting to come out for so long? Will anyone believe him? What would people say when he finally admits that the baby isn’t his?

He can’t believe he was ever stupid enough to agree to this contract; no sane person would let themselves be pushed around like this. No sane person would let their careers fall apart in their hands. No sane person would let themselves be seen as a sleazy chav, a deadbeat dad, a drug addict. And yet, here he is, letting everything and anything run over him. Why does he let himself be treated this way?

It is completely probable that the steering wheel is dented from how hard he’s gripped and hit it over the forty-five minutes it took to get home. By the time he steps foot past the doorway of his home, he can’t tell if he’s angry, sad, or full of self-loathing. He’s probably a mixture of all three. Instead of coping about it like a normal person might, he texts a couple of his friends to come over and trash his house.

The last person doesn’t leave until two in the morning.

He spends the rest of his day cleaning his house, forgetting about everything but the odour of bleach, the pounding in his head, and the trash bags filled with remnants from last night.

 

.

 

Months go by, and Harry and Louis have not ceased communication yet. They still talk and meet often, whenever both of them are nearby. It happens, funnily enough, at the oddest times: both wind up in Malibu - Harry for an Eagles concert, Louis for vacation with some friends; in Paris - Harry for Fashion Week, Louis for a session in the studio; they had even met up in fucking Tokyo, out of all places, because they were both there for different events. No matter where one of them goes, it seems the other is following behind.

They leave a trail of coffee mugs and cigarettes and hotel beds in their wake, leaving piles of evidence for avid fans to analyze and dig through, desperate to find the truth about their relationship.

They tend to hang out alone instead of with other people when they're in some other foreign country, sitting on unfamiliar beds in unfamiliar rooms, flicking through shows that have little appeal to them, or stealthily sneaking out to the nearest busy club to release some steam, although the latter doesn’t happen too often. Some days, they’re loud and rowdy. During these days, the people in the surrounding rooms are probably tempted to file noise complaints against them. Other times, they say minimal words to each other, letting the silence speak for them instead

Louis doesn’t mind, though. There’s something fucked up inside him that makes him like spending time with his ex-boyfriend instead of telling him to stay away from Harry. Because this shouldn’t be normal.

This is not how fate works.

Things are somewhat the same back in London. There have been several times where Louis had invited Harry over when he’s got other friends at his house and all of them will just do stupid shit like watch football or get high or play video games together. Whatever it is that they’re doing together, it’s never a bore. Despite all the fun he’s having, Louis always leaves their hang-outs with his heart full but torn.

His friends don’t give him a lot of shit for hanging out with his ex again, to Louis’ surprise. His head and heart are a mess right now, and he appreciates the fact that they’re letting him breathe and live his life. Every now and then, he gets the oh-so-curious glance over at him and Harry, but he lets it go. They’re just looking out for him.

On the flip side, sometimes Harry will invite Louis over when he’s throwing a house party with several of his other friends. (“A get-together,” Harry had once called it, “not a house party.” Louis had hit him on the head with a pillow for that.) He doesn’t make it a big deal, so Louis doesn’t either, but it’s a little odd and awkward when all of Harry’s friends have known him as “Harry’s Boyfriend” for as long as most of them have known him for, and he has to explain to supermodel Cindy Crawford that he and Harry have decided to split for the better.

It’s inevitable that they become a part of each other’s circle of friends.

Their whole friendship has been pretty lowkey; Louis hasn’t been telling anyone but his most trusted friends about them because the more people that know, the greater the risk of tabloids finding out, and he is _not_ looking to spark rumours again. There’s been _MUCH_ speculation happening around the two of them, but no one can really confirm anything for sure due to the lack of public evidence, and it’s not even like they’re doing anything bad, right? The paparazzi and the media can think whatever they want, but they’re never going to hit the nail squarely on the head. They’re not holding hands or kissing or anything of the like, no matter how much Louis might want to; they’re just two people getting reacquainted, or whatever the fuck is going on between them.

He’s trying his best to keep their friendship on the downlow, but it’s been much harder than he'd expected. Photos keep surfacing online of them going out to a cafe or cinema or wherever together, even though Louis has yet to see any paparazzi or fans take pictures of them. At this point, they’re coming out pretty consistently. It’s puzzling to see how people have gotten so many pictures of them together in so little time. His manager is furious for keeping this hidden from her, seething about how much damage control they’ll have to do for his actions.

Something inside him has the courage to ask, “What if we just let it be?”

She pauses from her tangent, eyebrows furrowed, mouth agape. Louis refused to break eye contact, gaze steady. Her mouth snaps shut and her lips curl down in a frown.

“Let me think about it,” she finally says. Despite her ambiguity, it feels like a win to Louis.

There are so many discussions on it all over social media that it has Louis’ head spinning. There’s been a massive shitstorm on Tumblr about whether the two of them are actually dating or just having friendly time together, last time Louis had checked. After that, mind spinning, Louis had decided to turn off his phone for the night, heading to bed early.

As he crawls under his covers, he wonders if Harry’s seen these posts yet. He probably has, given the fact that he has a tendency to lurk on Twitter. He wonders if Harry’s manager has yelled at him like his has. He wonders if they should talk about it, but before he can do anything about it, he’s drifting asleep, mind fogging up as his eyes slip closed.

 

.

 

Louis forces himself to forget all the little things they used to do together, things like hooking their ankles together until the table or sitting on the same side of a booth to share a menu. He had never thought about them until now; the actions that had become so second-nature to him in the years of their friendship are now the ones that he has to consciously stop himself from doing. It’s all the small things that have become hard habits to break.

Somewhere in the back of his mind nags, _But what if I don’t have to forget about them?_

He quickly scolds himself for thinking that way, for giving himself that kind of hope. Because that’s not what Harry wants. _He’s_ not what Harry will ever want again.

 

.

 

To be honest, Louis hasn’t really been paying too much attention to anything Harry’s been saying for the past fifteen minutes or so. There is faint noise coming from the television that Louis has blocked out along with the words coming out of Harry’s mouth. For all he knows, he could be telling a story about giving birth or about the girl at his show with the rainbow flag or ranting about whatever’s happening on the telly.

All of his focus is directed to not what Harry’s saying but rather at him, as a person, and his tattoos and his lips and his curly hair that’s just been cut a few months ago but is already starting to grow long again and his pink lips and his eyelashes and his lovely lips.

He interrupts what Harry’s saying to lean over and tug at a strand of hair by the side of Harry’s face, the one that Harry’s been fidgeting with for this entire time.

“Mate you really should to get it cut soon if it’s botherin’ you that much; it’s starting to sweep past your shoulders again,” Louis advises, returning back to his proper seat and taking a sip of tea. His fingers won’t stop trembling. He hopes to God that Harry doesn’t notice.

Harry pauses, combing his fingers through his hair and pushing them back away from his face. “I suppose I should get it cut soon,” he muses before returning to his long-winded story. This time, Louis makes sure to pay attention to everything he’s saying.

He has to fight against his own instincts to not reach out and push that one fucking curl that has come back, insisting on staying put in of Harry’s eyes; to not tuck Harry’s long hair behind his ears; to not knock their knees together when they’re sitting on the couch; to keep his distance like good friends would do; to not look at his lips.

All this pining is tiring when he knows he’ll never get anything in return.

But the next day, Harry had cut most of his long locks off, looking beautiful in his half-buttoned floral shirt and green bandana at a party. The hair by his forehead is just long enough to curl around a finger. He gives Louis a slight wave and cock of the head when they spot each other from afar. They’re too far away to properly distinguish facial features, but Louis swears that there’s the faintest trace of a smile on Harry’s lips. He gives him a thumbs up back before slipping back into the crowd and towards the bar before anyone else can see what he’s just done, and he can’t help but hope, _Maybe there_ is _something there_.

 

.

 

His phone lights up beside him on his dining table, accompanied by a loud buzz. Louis huffs. Who could be texting him so early in the morning?

He checks it anyway, reaching over to see who’s trying to bother him before he’s even finished his breakfast. When Harry’s name shows up on his screen, he’s rather surprised.  He reads over the text quickly, and his lips pull down into a scowl, eyebrows furrowed.

_“Keep an eye out on the tabloids today. They’ve got a big (and rather unpleasant) surprise…”_

Why would Harry be telling him things like this? What is he trying to say?

There is a brief moment where Louis’ heart skips a beat. He is wracked with an uneasy feeling, and suddenly his bowl of milk and cereal doesn’t look so appetizing anymore.

Surely, just a few hours later, the news drops that Harry is apparently _“over Camille and has moved on with his new lady lover…”_ Despite the warning beforehand, it still makes him feel sick and dizzy.

Of course, this is happening. It’s another fucking beard for another fucking opportunity of promotion…

When did Harry even break up with Camille? After finding out that Harry wasn’t actually dating her, Louis hasn’t been preoccupied with any sort of drama regarding Harry’s relationships.

News like this can only mean that Harry’s going to drop new music soon, which Louis realizes with wide eyes. It’s not like he didn’t know that Harry’s new album has been in the making; he just can’t believe that he’s still working on his first while Harry’s already on his second. He must be a bigger perfectionist than he realizes. (Or maybe he’s just been putting off the work... Louis can’t tell anymore.)

Something inside him stirs with unease. He can’t figure out what is it about the situation that’s making him feel so troubled; he’s known for a long time that Harry’s been working on the final touches of his album, like what Louis has been doing with his. He’s not jealous about Harry’s success because Louis has had some of his own, albeit in rather different ways, and he’s always been proud of what his bandmates have been doing. He knows that the beard is only for publicity and that Harry doesn’t like her in that sense. And yet, he can’t figure out why he’s still got that sickening feeling in his stomach.

His phone vibrates harshly in his pocket and he pulls it out with numb fingers.

 _“Surprise?”_ Harry had texted. The message consists of only one word, but for whatever reason, his mind is too engrossed in other thoughts to process it fast. The voices from the telly feel like a constant buzz in his ears. He is sinking into the couch cushions until he suffocates and has to fight for air. He can’t fucking focus. He can’t fucking _think_.

Finally, after what felt like ages, he shoots back, “ _already? can’t believe you’re stuck with another one,”_ once his head has cleared up.

_“Yeah, you know how the business is like. I like it just as much as you do, trust me.”_

Louis doesn’t answer. What does that mean? His phone vibrates again in his hands.

_“When are you out of your contract?”_

He gnaws on his lip as he types out his next response. _“sometime this year, i think,”_ he replies. The text he sends doesn’t accurately reflect how he feels about this. As indifferent or casual as he may sound over text, Louis has got the date circled and marked on his calendar in red Sharpie, with large exclamation points that border the words, “ _ENDING IT TODAY!”_

_“but maybe i’ll have to stick with her until new music comes out, but i think management will want to see me with another girl for that”_

_“I wish it didn’t have to be this way, you know?”_

_“fuck, yea…._

_“if only we could be ourselves.”_

Moments pass. Louis is staring at his phone screen, at the conversation between him and Harry for a long time. He waits for the signs that show that Harry is typing, but they don’t come for a long time. Maybe he said something wrong.

He sighs and sets his phone down. He scrubs at his face and drums his fingers on the table, one at a time in quick succession. His leg bounces up and down, up and down and up and down and up and down… Too much waiting makes him anxious.

Finally, his phone buzzes on the table. almost drops his phone when he receives another text from Harry. All doubts go out the window as he reads it, _“I want you to be the first to hear the new album. Mine, tomorrow???”_

Louis’ heart stutters in his chest. It beats so fast, faster than those vehicles on _Nascar_ , because why would Harry ever do something like that to him? What the fuck is happening? Out of all the things Harry could’ve said, Louis surely wasn’t expecting _that_. His head is spinning from whiplash due to the sudden change in topic.

He’s literally _shaking_ as he types back a response, excited and nervous and in shock and his mind can’t form a single thought except for, _oh my god what the fuck is going on!!!!!_ Despite the malfunctioning wires in his brain, he is still somehow able to form a coherent message that he sends in a heartbeat, nonetheless.

_“of course! i’ll meet you there in the afternoon :)”_

Out of all people to ask, why let Louis be the first? He’s pretty sure he’s not even Harry’s best friend anymore, so why him? He knows it’s probably nothing special, that he probably just wants the opinion of another musician, but at the same time, Harry could’ve literally chosen anyone, and he chose Louis.

Just that thought makes Louis giddy with excitement. He’s assumed for a while how much he means to Harry, but this just solidifies and proves his presumptions. Harry could’ve chosen anyone he wanted to,  people like Ed Sheeran or Chris Martin or probably even _the Queen of bloody England_ , but Harry chose _him_ . _Louis_ , out of all people; his ex-boyfriend, the one that broke their hearts, his new friend.

Maybe Fate has decided that they shouldn’t leave each other alone, that they should reconcile and start everything over again. Maybe She has given them a second shot. And he knows it’s a silly thought, but it makes Louis’ lips curve up.

The plans he had for going out with his friends tonight have escaped him, and he decides to up to bed early to try and sleep his nerves away. Instead, after he’s turned off all the lights and pulled up the covers and fluffed his pillow, he ends up lying there, in bed wide awake and staring straight into the dark, for at least an hour before falling asleep, limbs too twitchy to keep still.

 

.

 

Rhythmic basses and hard-hitting drums fill Harry’s large, spacious house, contrasting and intertwining with gentle acoustic guitars and soothing melodies. His voice sings viciously about a lost love, rough and full of emotion. Noises ricochet off of the white walls and envelop the two of them until Louis feels as if he’s suffocating from them.

Harry’s album is perfection. And if Louis’ eyes got wet a few times, no one else but the two of them had to know. The songs claw and pick at the brick wall he’s put up to protect himself until it’s gone. He feels so split open as he sits in Harry’s house, so vulnerable and helpless in a way that he doesn’t think he’s ever been. Louis’ heart starts to hurt because some part of him hopes that portions of this album are about him. And after two years, Harry still has the courage to do shit like this to Louis’ heart.

The final song comes on, a soft ballad that croons of love, and Harry’s looking out the window when he quietly admits, “I wrote this song last, a couple months ago. I thought the album was really missing something until this.”

There is something so heavenly about it that Louis is so moved by the song. His eyes start to well up again and he wipes them quickly with his sweater sleeve when he sees Harry turning around. Harry still manages to catch him in the act and he tugs his sleeves over his hands and stares downward. Inside his mind, he chants to himself, _“Don’t fucking cry,”_ over and over again.

But when Harry, who looks mortified to see Louis with red-rimmed, wet eyes, hurriedly crosses the room to make sure he’s okay, Louis can’t help but sob once more. His shoulder is wracked by sobs, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind. He just pulls him into his chest, thumb stroking the nape of Louis’ neck, until there are no more tears left to cry.

When the whole crying shitfest is over, Harry gets up to bring him some water. He shoves the cup into Louis’ hands as he settles down on the couch next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. Louis feels too drained to have more than just several sips and grips the cup tightly.

“ _Fuuuuuuuck,_ sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,” Louis apologizes, sniffing hard and wiping at his eyes and nose, “I just got really emotional because the album is so good.” There are so many more reasons than that. There are so many more words that he wishes he could say, but he can’t. Those kinds of things must be kept in his chest for the sake of their friendship.

He’s so embarrassed about breaking down in front of him, but Harry just beams, before pulling him into another tight hug. Louis wishes that Harry would stop touching him so he can figure out a way to silence his rapidly beating heart, but instead, Louis just buries his head in the crook of Harry’s neck, taking deep, shaky breaths. There are things more important than trying to push him away, like the subtle hint of his shampoo that Louis is trying to ingrain in his memory.

“Your team is really good. I wish I had something like that,” Louis murmurs into Harry’s neck. Harry still hasn’t let him go yet.

“Ah, you keep forgetting how good your new management team is,” Harry reminds him in a gentle tone, rubbing his back in small circles. His deep voice calms him down. It’s a gentle sea that surrounds his entire body and rocks him back and forth. “Remember what they did with Frank Ocean?”

“And yet they can’t get me out of _this_ bloody mess fast enough.” Louis knows he sounds bitter, but he can’t help himself. He’s spent the last 6 years trying to get himself out of this mess. Fuck the baby. Fuck the fake girlfriends. Fuck all the stunts. He wants nothing more than to be himself.

 _Fuck_ , he wants a cigarette.

By this point, he’s already sobbed in front of Harry, who’s been there for the worst and the best parts of Louis’ life. Their relationship is so odd and screwed up already that sharing a little bit more about himself can’t hurt him.

But oh, how he wishes that were true. Because the more he ends up telling Harry, the more Harry listens and responds and the more Harry tells him about himself. By the end of the night, they know more about each other’s deepest thoughts. Exes don’t do that, do they? They don’t become best friends again, and they certainly don’t spend their time apart wishing that they were together again.

He should’ve never cried in front of him in the first place.

“Your ‘girlfriend’ will be out of your life soon enough. Before you know it, things’ll start getting better. And I’ll always be here if you need anything. These next few months are going to pass by so fast, just you wait,” Harry murmurs. His fingers, which were entangled in Louis’ hair, scratch gently at his scalp.

“Thank you,” Louis whispers, and he means it. His entire body is filled with warmth, which thrums through his fingertips. He doesn’t want to escape this feeling.

As soon as Louis leaves Harry’s house that evening, feeling drained and yet complete at the same time, he knows he’s made a mistake.

Because, shit, he’s got the biggest crush on Harry Styles.

The sudden realization sends a massive shock through his chest, and yet it doesn’t feel like a weight sitting on top of him. Instead, it feels like he’s just been unchained to one. The idea sits comfortably with him, that, yes, he likes Harry Styles. Nothing has ever felt quite right.

And then something else hits him. Deep despair washes over him like ice water at another thought: there is no way that Harry would like him back again. Because why would he? They had their chance together and they took it. They fell in love and spent seven years together. They were _happy,_ he thought. And then they broke up.

_They broke up. He was dumped._

God, he feels sick.

 

.

 

Louis wonders if he ever stopped loving Harry. Something in his gut tells him that, despite all these years and attempts, the short answer is no, he never did. He’s pretty sure about what he’s feeling. It’s something he hasn’t felt in a long time and he’s not sure whether he should welcome it into his heart, nor if he wants to. The last time he’s had a crush this big was nine years ago with Harry, when they were just teenagers with big dreams and loud thoughts. However, there is one thing he does know: it’s been a few months since Harry and Louis reconnected, and whatever Louis’ been feeling for this man hasn’t gone away since their first encounter. He’s never had his eyes for anyone else but him.

It doesn’t help that Harry does all these things, calling him to wake him up early on important days to be the first one to cheer him on, saying shit like, “This song is one of my favorite songs on this new album,” and the song would be about loving someone he once lost, but now found again, and texting him random thoughts like, _“Are oranges named after the colour or the fruit?”_ late at night when Louis is in the studio or working on music. Louis hates Harry because it’s the little things like these that drag him deeper into the _I-Love-Harry-Styles_ hole that he had just managed to crawl out of. He hates that Harry is so casual around him and that he doesn’t get flustered like Louis does because every time they make eye contact, Louis’ chest starts to ache with all sorts of emotions.

Harry’s a brick wall when it comes to emotions sometimes. He’s so passionate and emotional and so _raw_ on stage, but Louis has come to learn that that's only a persona. In public, he’ll close himself off, becoming reserved and quiet, and he’s gotten so good at faking his emotions over the years that sometimes Louis forgets that his smile isn’t genuine. It makes him so sad whenever he shuts himself in.

Because Louis wants to see everything that Harry sees.

No one really knows what’s going on inside Harry Styles’ mind. Everyone _thinks_ they know, but they don’t. Louis was the only one who ever truly knew what he was like. But that was two, almost three years ago. After they broke up, they had not spoken many words to each other until Gemma’s wedding. That long gap has changed Harry. Louis knows it’s changed himself, too.

It’s not like Harry’s completely different. There are some things about him that are so familiar, like the way he carries himself - kind of slouched and hunched over to look everyone in the eye, his long, slow, deep drawl, his smile that lights up any room that he’s in. There are things that he’s forgotten about him that he wants to remember, like what he looks like when he wakes up and when he’s just about to fall asleep, and there are brand new parts of him that Louis wants to get to know better, like the calluses on his fingers from playing guitar all the time and all the new tattoos.

Maybe Louis is a little crazy for wanting to know him as well as he used to. Because they’re over. They’ve _been_ over for at least two years. They’ll never be _HarryAndLouis_ again, not the way that Louis wants them to be.

He ruined his chance with the most perfect boy he’s ever met. No matter good he has it right now, Louis wants more. He wants so much more than what they have, and he knows that he’ll never get it. It’s as if he’s reliving their split again, except this time he actually _has_ Harry and it feels _so_ much worse. It’s stuff like this that just makes him want to throw himself under a train.

No matter what happens, he knows he must keep his feeling to himself. He’ll get so much shit from everyone when he tells them, and he _really_ doesn’t want to deal with that right now. So, instead, he puts his feelings through his music and his writing and it sounds sad and angry and full of something lost and _raw_. It feels so fucking raw.

 

.

 

He’s been drinking himself to a stupor, partying - but never going home with - people he doesn’t know, and throwing himself headfirst into his music. He’s been doing anything he can to keep his mind off of Harry. But no matter how hard he tries, no matter where he fucking goes, he can always see the boy with chocolate curls behind his eyelids.

Getting drunk doesn’t seem like it’s doing the trick like it used to anymore. Although somewhere in the back of his mind is telling him that this is a bad idea, he calls Harry one late night after stumbling home from the club.  It must be around three in the morning, but he doesn’t feel too tired yet. There is no doubt in his mind that he reeks of alcohol and sweat and perhaps even another person’s scent.

He sprawls out on his couch, propping his feet on the armrest after kicking off his trainers. His feet look blurry and his whole body feels just a tad fuzzy. If he weren’t already lying down, he would’ve been by now. He must’ve had more to drink than he originally thought. Harry picks up after the third ring, not that Louis was counting or anything.

“‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrryyyyyyyyy,” Louis croons into his phone. His lips spread into a wide grin as he kicks his feet up in the air, swinging them about.

“Lou, are you drunk?” Harry’s voice is rough through Louis’ cell and his words come out even slower and deeper than usual, like he just woke up. Maybe he _did_ just wake up. It’s kind of hot.

“Mmmmmaaaaaybbeeeeeeeeeeeee,” he sing-songs.

“Can you take care of yourself? Or do you want me to come over?”

“Yeah, that would be niiiiice. Always want you over y’know,” he slurs before giggling, flipping over onto his stomach and resting his face into the arm that isn’t holding his phone.

There’s rustling in his ear and he can distinguish some kind of exhale - probably a sigh - coming from the other man. Finally, “I’ll be there in thirty,” and Harry hangs up on him. Louis is unconcerned at the sudden lack of Harry in his ear, only because he’ll be seeing him in person soon. The thought of that makes him giddy, and he can’t resist doing a little shimmy of excitement.

It feels like bloody ages until there the ring of the doorbell echoes through the house. Louis is rather proud of himself for not falling asleep just yet. It would be rather impolite to accidentally doze off when there’s someone about to come over.

He staggers towards the door, swinging it open, and is met with a drowsy Harry, dressed in a black hoodie and sweatpants, hair pulled back in a whale-spout that sits high on the crown of his head. Somewhere in the back of Louis’ mind, he’s well aware that it’s past 3 a.m. and that Harry shouldn’t even be up in the first place, because who in the world would ever be up at such an unreasonable hour? Right now, however, he is too elated to see Harry to even toy with an idea like that.

“Hiiii,” Harry greets with a small grin and rubs his eyes. He slips off his slides as soon as Louis ushers him into his house, shutting the door with a soft _click_.

“Hazza!” Louis exclaims, pushing and urging him onto the couch with uncoordinated limbs before falling right next to him. “Welcome home!”

“This isn’t my home, Lou,” Harry reminds him and chuckles. “I’ll get you some water, you should get some sleep soon.”

“But you just got here,” he whines, “I stayed up just for you, an’ now you’re tellin’ me to sleep!” He grips Harry’s forearm hard when he tries to get up and drags him back down. Harry stumbles backward and falls partially on Louis, who doesn’t see nonplussed by this and only uses this position to wrap his arms around his chest like a vice. Harry rolls his eyes and pries Louis’ fingers off of himself.

“I’m getting you some water,” he insists and gets up from the couch before Louis can pull him down again. Louis groans and Harry chuckles, deep and quiet. The sound of his laughter is the only thing that keeps the goofy smile on Louis’ lips when Harry’s gone.

It takes Harry forever to bring him a glass of water, and Louis downs it in one go as soon as he brings it back. He finishes it just as Harry sits back down beside him, and when he glances back at him, Harry’s got this amused look on his face.

“I was thirsty!” he defends, but he gets only a snort and a shake of the head in return. He rolls his eyes at the lack of response and continues, “Let’s watch some telly, I bet there’s somethin’ good on righ’ now.” He throws himself over Harry’s lap to grasp at the remote.

“Lou, it’s, like, 3:45. I doubt there’s gonna be anything good on the telly because no one’s ever up this late.”

“We’re up this late,” Louis points out.

“ _I’m_ only up this late because you called and woke me up and asked me to come over,” Harry explains. Louis pouts and switches on the television anyway. After flicking through countless channels, the only show that they decide is worth watching is _Friends_.

They talk for a bit, volume on the TV turned down so they don’t have to talk over the constant background noise. He cuddles up to Harry, whose body is so warm next to him, burying his face into his chest and letting large hands card through his hair.

It isn’t a surprise that Harry takes good care of him. He keeps him hydrated and safe and doesn’t let him do stupid things, like get a tattoo that he’ll regret the next day. Even so, it’s got to be weird, being completely sober while your friend and/or ex-boyfriend is absolutely smashed. But Louis supposes that there are worse things than that.

Louis says some shit that he knows he probably shouldn’t have said, something about missing the old times and something about Harry, but his mind is too fuzzy to regret anything that comes out of his mouth. Despite any bullshit Louis spouts in his drunken state, Harry is calm and caring as always.

He turns his face up to look at Harry, who in turn looks down at him. They are close enough that he can see the little details on Harry’s face if he focuses hard enough, like the hint of freckles and the flecks of brown that encompass his pupils. How could Louis ever have let him go?

“You’re gorgeous,” Louis breathes out, eyes wide, because he means it. He means it with every bone in his twenty-seven-year-old body. The fact that Harry’s so stunning resonates through him every time they meet like a gong: loud, crashing, hard-hitting. There is no way that Louis can ever get over him.

Harry, despite Louis’ genuine earnestness, only cups his jaw and gives him a small smile, one that doesn’t show any teeth nor does it seem to reach his eyes.

“I think it’s time to sleep,” Harry murmurs. Louis’ eyebrows furrow as his lips turn down into a pout, but he lets Harry guide him to his own bedroom without a single complain.

He asks Harry to stay, hand darting out to take hold of Harry’s arm when he tries to pull away and mumbling the words that stop him from leaving. It’s almost five by the time Louis settles into his bed. The bed dips as Harry lays down next to him. Louis presses up against him until their legs are intertwined and his head rests against Harry’s shoulder like how they used to sleep. He pulls the covers tight over the both of them, allowing himself one night - and one night _only_ \- to be this close to Harry again.

When he wakes up, he’s got a pounding hangover, as well as the unsettling feeling like he’s done something wrong. He reaches over to his nightstand, fumbling for his phone, which, to his dismay, has no battery. He sets it back down and groans, rolling over to face the other side of the room and pulling the covers right under his chin in an attempt to fall back asleep and deal with his headache later. It doesn’t work, however; the throbbing in his temples make it too hard to do anything but focus on not throwing up.

The muscles in his body sigh with relief as he stretches them. His legs graze something solid and warm and, _Harry?_

He shoots up, which _ooh, was not a good idea._ He is nauseous and dizzy and quite awake and aware of everything because _WHY IS HARRY IN MY BED_. He’s racking his brain for memories, but everything is slightly hazy, at best. Did they kiss? Did they have sex? He looks around for evidence of anything they could have done last night. But there isn’t anything suspicious about his room and he doesn’t feel sore, so he breathes out a great sigh of relief and turns to glance at Harry.

Except his glance turns into a gaze and then he’s tracing over the features of Harry’s face, from the angle of his nose to the parting of his rose-pink lips to the curve of his dark eyelashes.

His hangover doesn’t seem that bad anymore.

Harry shifts, turning over to face the other side of the bed and Louis can’t help the twinge in his chest because _No, come back and face me so I can look at you more_. That sudden burst of emotion sends a sharp pain through his temples and it’s really fucking bright outside his windows and he needs a shit ton of Ibuprofen and hot tea and maybe a shower. With some reluctance, he heaves himself out of bed and stumbles into his kitchen.

He, in his addled state, makes Harry a cup of tea, just because he can. Yorkshire, with milk and a dash of sugar, just how he likes it. After all these years and to his embarrassment, he still knows how Harry took his tea. Hopefully, it hasn’t changed in these past few years.

Everything about this is so utterly domestic - him, making Harry a cup of tea and waiting for him to get out of bed; Harry, sleeping in Louis’ room like nothing has ever changed. Louis’ heart can’t help but twist and shatter into a billion pieces because he knows that none of this will ever be true again.

_One chance and you fucking lost it. Idiot._

He sits at his counter, wallowing in his own pain, sipping his tea like every sip doesn’t make him want to throw up, for more than one reason. Perhaps he deserves to suffer; it’s what he gets for liking Harry again. He checks the time; it’s past noon, almost 1 o’clock. That means that Harry should be waking up soon. Louis kicks himself for thinking that. Fucking hell.

 

.

 

He gets drunk often these days to drown out his misery, heading out early and coming back home late at night. People wonder if he’s alright; tabloids question if his head is on the right way, but Louis can’t give a shit about what people think about him. It doesn’t matter what he does, whether it be good or bad - everything seems to get twisted into something negative, anyway.

He knows that he’s fallen into a rut and he knows that he should get out of it and he hates himself for ever thinking that he could ever be Harry’s boyfriend again. He tries so fucking hard to distance himself from Harry, who is still so insistent on being with him: canceling plans, saying he’s sick, pretending he has work on nights where he’s perfectly free, hanging out with friends more and going to clubs to find someone else to take over his mind for a few hours.

But none of it works.

And at the end of the day, he lies in bed wide awake, thinking of all the possibilities, heart twisting more and more in feelings of regret and loss. All the _what if_ …….’s and all the _why didn’t I…….._ ’s and all the _if only……._ ’s and all the _I should have……_ ’s crash through his mind like tsunamis until his heart pounds out of his chest and his limbs feel so numb and cold.

 

.

 

His fingers fumble with his phone, fingers heavy thanks to the number of drinks he’s knocked back. The evidence of that sits on the kitchen counter in front of him in an almost empty bottle of gin.

Louis hesitates when he sees Harry’s name in his contacts, labeled under _hazza_ , but he scrolls past it. He hasn’t messaged Harry in days, maybe even weeks. Time passes weirdly when he goes out too much, and it seems like Harry’s gotten his message that he doesn’t want to hang out with him anymore. Louis snorts, _If only he knew the truth._

He continues scrolling through his contacts list until he gets to Liam’s name. He taps hard on the screen on the name that says _payno_ until he’s calling his dear friend. The phone is cold against his cheek, but it does well to knock him out of his drunken trance.

They haven’t met up in a long time, to be honest; the last time they saw each other properly was before Gemma’s wedding. Sure, they call quite often and text even more than they call, but Louis isn’t sure when the last time he’s heard Liam’s voice was.

Liam has always known what to do in times like these, and he’s the only one Louis feels comfortable going to, the only one who truly knows how much Harry’s always meant to Louis. The “daddy” of One Direction truly lives up to his name. He was the one that he’s always gone to in the past. Why should now be any different, even if circumstances have changed?

Louis closes his eyes and lets himself lean back on his stool, just until he’s about to fall off, woozy and uncoordinated. The idea of tumbling to the ground doesn’t scare him right now.

“‘Lo?” Liam’s voice sounds tired and deep over the phone.

“Paaaaynooooooooooo,” Louis croons.

“Tommo!!!! haven’t heard your beautiful voice in a while, what’s up?”

Louis’ lips can’t help but curve up into a grin as he speaks, “Payno I’ve got a problemmmmmm.”

“Are you drunk?”

“I said I’ve got a fuckin problem, mate.”

“Does this problem have anything to do with the fact that you’re drunk?”

“I dunno, maybe.” Louis pauses and licks his lips. Liam doesn’t say anything for a long time, and Louis doesn’t either, until he blurts out, “What do you do when you think you’re over someone but then it turns out that you’re not and all your feelin’s come crashing back to you like a magnificent, _bloody painful_ wave?”

“Louis…” Liam, with reason, sounds wary.

“I know what you said about…  gettin’ over him but it’s so _haaaaaaaaaaard_ . And we’ve been talking a lot lately and it’s just so good and he’s so good and I’m so dumb. Plus, I’ve been avoidin’ him ‘cos I’m _really_ scared that he’ll laugh at me,” he rambles.

Liam sighs over the phone. “Louis, you’re a mess.”

“I know. He makes me into one.”

Louis kind of wants to cry. He’s so sad and mad and frustrated at himself for getting into this mess. There is an urge in his gut to get stoned again, something he hasn’t done in _years_ , because he hasn’t tried that yet in his attempts to get over Harry.

 _Yea, I’ll just become a fucking pothead so I don’t have to think about him_.

Louis babbles on and on and _on_ about how much they’ve been hanging out and how, every time Harry laughs, Louis just wants to _kiss him_ and how Harry keeps touching his arm like they’re best friends or lovers again and Louis just wishes they were friends and everything more and how Harry smells so fucking _Good_ and Louis wants to wear all his shirts and smell like him and get boned by him because the sex was bloody fantastic and he’s going through a bit of a dry spell because every time he tries to pull, he ends up thinking about how Harry’s the one that should be doing this, not some random creep in a dank club.

Liam listens to him talk over the phone. He lets him ramble on, saying nothing until the very end of his long babble. Just having Liam on the phone calms Louis down, lets him collect his thoughts and unleash everything he’s been suppressing for months. It feels good to let these things out. Both of them know that Louis is a hot mess and that he should just get over Harry to save him pain. They both also know that getting over Harry isn’t possible, but Liam urges him to do it anyway because, as he repeatedly reminds him, it’s not healthy for Louis to damage himself this badly. He urges him to move on, to love someone new, to find a body to grind on at the club.

Louis knows that Liam’s only trying to help, but it really fucking hurts. It feels like his life is destined for torture.

Liam sighs. “Or, y’know. Just keep going with Harry. And fight for him. And maybe you guys really are meant for each other, like God’s twisted little game of love or summat, because from what I’ve heard it seems like he really does like you. Just don’t fuck it up. He loved you, but keep in mind you broke his heart -”

“He fuckin’ broke mine!”

“Yea but _you got over it and fell in love with him again, goddammit_ ,” Liam snaps, “How long did you guys date for?”

“Seven years,” Louis mumbles.

“Who broke up with who?”

“It was mutual,” Louis groans.

“Yeah, exactly! Mutual breakups always leave both people heartbroken. No one ever thinks that it’s a good idea, but it happened anyway because you guys thought that life would be easier. And if his songs mean anything, obviously, that wasn’t true. Make him fall back in love with you - if he isn’t already. Make him remember why he stayed with you for seven years.”

“Liam, I don’t know _how_ ,” he whines.

Liam sighs rather impatiently, but his tone isn’t sharp at all when he says, “You’re such a fucking dumbass sometimes. Yes, you do. Because you’ve done it before. And you’ve made him constantly fall in love with you _every single fucking day_ for seven years, and even when you guys were fighting, he was still in love with you. And even when you guys _weren’t_ together, he wrote all those bloody songs about losing you. _It’s always been about you, idiot_.”

Louis breath catches in his throat, and he mumbles, “ _Fuck_.”

Liam always knows what to say.

 

.

 

Of course, the one time he desperately needs to see Harry is the week where he’s off in Venice, hanging out with his Lady Lover. And it’s not like Louis didn’t know about this beforehand. After Louis had apologized for ignoring him, blaming his disappearance on his work, Harry had texted him just a few days ago to complain. He had accepted his excuse and apology with no suspicions, and Louis couldn’t help but feel guilty about it.

 _“I really hate this job sometimes. What’s the point of having a beard when half of your fans think you’re fucking gay?”_ Harry had texted him.

Louis had let out an unattractive snort. The first thought that had run through his mind was, _Half of your fans also think we’re still shagging, even though we’re not. So, y’know. Life is crazy like that._

Instead, he’d texted back, “ _publicity’s publicity. doesn’t matter whether it’s good or bad. if it gets the people’s attention, then so be it. business people don’t care about anything but attention._

_“it’ll spark outrage amongst your fans, which people will see._

_“it’ll get your name out there again, on the tabloids, which management will want._

_“regular people ( & not just your fans) will know who you are, which is good. _

_“you know how it is. sighting after sighting, until your album is out. “_

_“Can’t wait for you to get out of your contract.”_

Louis’ heart had fluttered in his chest as a smile spread through his face. Out of anxiety, out of excitement, out of love. Such a simple statement had flooded his entire body with warmth. He hates the fact that Harry can still make him feel that way, after all these years.

Now, after seeing paparazzi pictures of Harry in Venice with a tall brunette wrapped around his arm, he is so devoid of all but pain.

He knows he shouldn’t be looking at these pictures, but he’s a bloody masochist, so he does anyway. They show up all over the Internet; no matter where he goes online, he always seems to be reminded that there is a girl out there attached to Harry’s side like a leech, pretending to be in love with Harry. And Harry is just letting her do that, smiling and laughing and holding her hand like it’s no big deal.

Louis _knows_ that it’s not a big deal. He _knows_ that he’s overreacting and that Harry’s only doing it because he has to. For some reason, that doesn’t make him feel better. That should be _him_ by Harry’s side, laughing with him and holding his hand in public, kissing him like nothing in the world matters other than them.

 _It’s fake, it’s fucking fake,_ he chants to himself, but despite the number of times he repeats it, his body doesn’t seem to understand what he’s saying. His stomach continues to churn relentlessly and the pain in his chest isn’t going away.

After a while, he has to force himself to turn his phone off. If he hadn’t, it’s possible that he would’ve broken it out of jealousy. He feels so blinded by rage and love and so unbearably overwhelmed and sick.

He wants the ground to swallow him whole so he doesn’t have to experience a life filled with such misery, but he blares his heartbreak playlist from his speakers instead and drowns himself in the music, wishing for the day to come where he doesn’t have to feel like this.

 

.

 

He ends up throwing himself into his work headfirst, staying up late to come up with nifty riffs and melodies and beats, and ends up finishing recording the last of his songs the week Harry is in Venice. He spends a majority of this time cooped up in the studio, coaxing the music out of him and his band members.

To be fair, the reason why he’s able to finish so fast is that there isn’t much more to do in the first place. There were four more songs he needed to record to take into consideration for the album, upping the total amount of songs to choose from to fifteen, but he had written these songs months ago and they only needed to be refined. By the end of it, his voice feels raw and wrecked, but he feels content for the first time in a while.

He spends the next week and a half deciding which songs he wants to go on the album, meeting with his producer and manager and every executive he could imagine in an attempt to get his album out there to the public. He tries his best to forget about Harry, ignoring his calls and texts, only ever picking up to send him a brief _“sorry. busy. i’ll talk to you later.”_ text that shatters his heart every single time. He knows that it’s for the best; right now, the only thing he should be doing is finishing his album, and being distracted by Harry would only delay this task even more.

His heart is so wounded and so fragile by this point; he’s not sure why he does this to himself. His time spent in the studio tore him into pieces until there was nothing left to give. Every little step in this process is so draining, but he pushes on anyway because he wants this album to be released. It’s time to finish what he’s been putting off for _three years._

Ultimately, there’s nothing left for him to do but wait for the final product to be mastered, which will take a day or two.

That means he has a day or two to relax and wait. That means that his gates to sanity have been knocked down by intruding thoughts of _Hazza_ until he is all Louis can think about. What should have been a couple days of peace turns into moments of hell.

The anticipation of his record and his isolation from Harry drive him up the walls. Louis’ fingers itch to text him, but he forces himself to wait. It’s absolute torture, but he refuses from any contact with him. He can’t… not yet, at least.

At last - at _fucking_ last - the album is done. Finished. Finally. _God._

He can’t breathe when he sees the package in his mail. It’s just a small and simple yellow parcel with his name scrawled on it in shitty handwriting, but just knowing what’s inside makes him buzz with excitement. He can’t believe that it’s finally here. Even though he knows all the words to every single track, he’s going to listen to it right away. He rips open the packet hastily in his living room until he sees it.

To any other person, it might seem like a meaningless object. It’s just a plain CD, with _LT1_ scribbled on it with Sharpie. It gleans in the sunlight and Louis can’t stop marveling at it.

His heart is pounding, and his heart is in his throat. His hands are shaking. Is he nervous or excited? Most days, he can’t tell the difference.

His trembling fingers fumble with his cell. They tap on a name on his screen and press the phone to his cheek. Every part of his body feels numb, and he’s terrified that he’s going to drop something.

 _“Hazza?”_ he breathes out. His chest is so, so tight.

“ _Lou?_ I haven’t heard from you in - _”_

“ _Hazza_ my album just came in the mail, come listen to it with me, please. I know I haven’t been talking to you and I’m really fuckin’ sorry, it’s just I needed time and-and-and I needed to finish this album, Harry…” he blabbers, rushed and stumbling over his words.

“Holy shit,” Harry says while he rambles, “I’m coming right over.”

“Please hurry up.”

He pulls out his phone, shaking, and texts Harry, _“doors unlocked. help yourself in.”_

 _“I’m on my way now,”_ Harry responds.

Louis gnaws on the knuckles of his finger, his other hand tap-tap-tapping on his knees. He gets up, antsy, and gets the kettle going. He flicks through his kitchen cabinets absentmindedly, rummaging through the snacks and plates, doing anything he can to relieve his nerves. After finding nothing worthwhile in his kitchen, he heads back to his living room and sits on the sofa, knees bouncing in anticipation. The minute-hand on the clock goes slower than it ever has. It’s the tensest twenty minutes he’s ever waited.

Harry strides in with a sense of purpose like he owns the place, the door swinging wide open with a soft creak. Louis can feel when Harry’s eyes land on him, despite staring at the open CD case sitting on the coffee table in front of him. It causes tingles that run down his back that he forces himself to ignore. His fingers tap nervously on his thigh, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip.

Harry settles next to him, flush against his side. Their shoulders and knees knock together, and Louis presses into it instinctively. His leg stops bouncing. He hates that Harry can still make him feel this way.

Louis’ mind is racing. What will Harry think about the new album? Will he like it? He wonders whether Harry will know which songs are about him - about _them_ , like how Louis knew which were about him on Harry’s album. He tries not to think about that.

“Is this it?” He beckons towards the CD laying in between them. It’s obvious that it is, due to the _LT1_ written on it, but Louis doesn’t have it in him to tease him right now. Harry’s soft, low voice sends shivers down his spine. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

“So, let’s play it.” Harry takes the disk out of the case and Louis’ anxiety skyrockets and holy shit, he’s so so _so_ scared.

“Harry I-” Harry turns around at the sound of his name. Louis shuts up and clenches his jaw. There are so many things he wants to say that are on the tip of his tongue; so many things he can’t tell him that he wishes he could. “Nothin’. Nothin.’ Nevermind.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, but Louis just shakes his head.

“Nevermind,” he repeats, voice firm. He takes a sip of his tea to prove his point, quirking his eyebrows up as he looks him straight in the eyes.

“I’m gonna play it, then.” Harry fidgets with the CD player by the telly, spinning the CD on a finger as he turns it on.

“ _Yes._ Please do,” Louis says hastily after gulping down his drink. He takes long, steady breaths in and out to steady his nerves, counting _1, 2, 3, 4, 5,_ in his mind. “I want you to be the first one to hear it.”

He sees Harry grow still for a moment from the corner of his eye before he presses play. Louis clenches his jaw, wishing that he hadn’t said that.

A heavy beat fills the room, suffocating the air and surrounding his body. Louis closes his eyes. He wants a smoke, so fucking badly. He gives in to the temptation and gets up to grab a cigarette and lighter from his room. Louis’ singing voice fills the entire house. It echoes in the large expanse of his living room and ricochets in the hallways and up the stairs. He can’t help but tremble as he heads back down to the living room, a fag in his mouth.

Harry sits on Louis’ couch, staring at his hands the entire time. He is breathtaking, hair tucked behind his ears, brow furrowed in concentration, mouth slightly open, and he isn’t even doing anything special. His head bobs up and down to the beat, and suddenly Louis wishes that Harry wouldn’t be so analytical about his album.

Louis can’t help his nerves when he settles down next to Harry. If he sits too close to Harry, he doesn’t say anything. His knee bounces up and down and up and down and _upanddownandupanddown_ , fingers running through his hair tersely, sucking in the nicotine. It’s the first time he’s had a cigarette in a little over a month.

Harry lays his big hand on the top of Louis’ thigh, and it immediately goes still. _Again_ . ( _Fucking bastard of a leg.)_ His thumb rubs circles over his denim-covered leg, his palm spreading warmth throughout his entire body. Louis lets Harry be his anchor, just for a little bit. Even once the room is quiet, they sit like that for a long time, pressed against each other in silence.

Finally, Harry murmurs, “Holy shit, Lou.”

A breath Louis didn’t even know he was holding escapes out of his lungs. The weight has been lifted off his chest, and all the nerves and anxiety has left him completely. There’s a little party going on in his heart and stomach right now.

“Louis, holy shit this is so fucking good.”

“Really?” he says and Harry nods enthusiastically. Louis almost cries at the compliment. His lips spread into a wide grin. “Harry, don’t lie to me. Holy shit.”

“Louis you’re a _rockstar_ , oh my _God,_ this is incredible,” Harry laughs incredulously. “No one’s going to care that they had to wait three years because this album is an absolute _banger._ You’re amazing.”

Louis laughs in joy and Harry joins along. They laugh and smile and hug and yell and hug some more, because the album is finally out. It’s finally going to be released. They’re so fucking happy.

Louis is so emotional that he literally cries tears of joy. Harry holds him tight and Louis half-laughs, half-sobs into his shoulder, letting him cradle him and stroke his hair. He holds Harry tight, gripping him like he’ll never let him go;  Harry just lets him.

“Fuck I’m so sorry I don’t know why this always happens to me,” Louis mumbles once he’s settled down, rubbing his tears away.

Harry chuckles. “You’re an emotional man, I get it. It’s okay,” he soothes, rubbing his hands over his back, fingers curling into the nape of Louis’ neck through his hair.

“Fuck, I’m so glad you like it.”

“Of course I would, why wouldn’t I?” Harry sounds so affronted that Louis can’t help but be endeared by it.

Louis laughs through the tears, pressing his damp face against Harry’s jaw, until, before he knows it, they’re kissing. And Harry’s lips are soft and he smells so good and feels like home and Louis wants _more_. He presses closer, tilting his head and losing himself in the kiss. Harry lets him, tightening his grip on Louis’ body until their torsos are almost flush.

When he finally registers what he’s done, he hastily pulls away, yanking his body away from Harry’s, who looks like he’d just come out of a daze. He stumbles off the couch to add more distance between them, standing in front of Harry with shaky legs that can barely support his weight. They both lick their lips at the same time, and Louis wipes his lips, chest heaving from the lack of oxygen.

Louis’ wide eyes dart around, from Harry’s eyes to the ground to his wet lips and back to the ground. _Fuck,_ what did he just do?

“I-I… I’m sorry,” he stammers. Harry opens his mouth to say something, but Louis just keeps on going. “Oh my fucking god I just - _fuck_.”

“Lou -”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I just did that.” He stands there, pressing his palms to his eye sockets. Any attempts to calm himself down and not cry once more are futile. His breath comes out in quick, panicked jabs. His ears are muffled, blood rushing through like waves crashing onto the shore. He’s shaking. He can’t believe he just fucked this up. He fucked up so badly. Oh my god. All he ever wanted was a second chance with Harry, to be able to rekindle their friendship and let things get better until they found their way back to each other like they always do. But after this, there’s no way Harry would ever want what he wants.

“Louis it’s _okay_.”

“Haz, I didn’t mean to do that,” he stammered.

“Lou…” Harry reaches to touch Louis’ arm and Louis flinches away because he doesn’t want Harry’s pity. He takes another step back. All the good vibes from before are gone now. All the happiness is out the window.

Why does he always screw everything up?

He presses his palms harder into his eyes to stop them from leaking tears. Instead, it just makes his head spin. He can feel his body sway. If he tumbles right here, he wouldn’t pick himself back up.

“D’you want me to go?”

“I don’t…….” he takes a shaky breath in. “I don’t know,” he admits. Because no, he doesn’t want him to go, but it’s probably for the best. He feels so weak. So vulnerable. So empty.

Harry lets out a soft sigh, and before Louis knows it, Harry’s arms are wrapped around him again. He wants to pull away and tell him to stop; the last thing he wants is Harry’s fucking pity. There are already enough things for Harry to sympathize about - he knows too much about him already - he doesn’t want this to be something else that’s tacked on to that ever-growing list. Everything was fine, but now it’s not. It’s all Louis’ fault.

“It’ll be okay, this doesn’t change anything between us if you don’t want it to.” Harry entangles his long fingers in Louis’ hair, gently brushing through his hair and scratching his scalp. Louis presses his head into his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

 _I want this to change everything about us_.

“I don’t know what I want anymore, Haz,” Louis mumbles, so quietly that he’s afraid that he didn’t catch what he said.

It takes a long time for Louis to calm down, but Harry’s with him the entire time, and that makes things just a little bit better. They sit on his couch and watch _Friends_ for several hours until Louis feels okay enough to not break down at every minor inconvenience. Harry doesn’t judge nor complain when Louis settles next to Harry, laying in a way that his head rests against his firm chest. Harry’s hands play with the hair on the nape of his neck, resting every now and then before picking right back up.

It feels too domestic for him, but Louis can’t pull away. He wishes this was reality, and a twinge of guilt settles over him. He shouldn’t be making Harry stay after Louis fucked it all up; Harry shouldn’t have to console him like the way he is. This entire situation feels too precarious. He wishes he could be unashamed of what he’s done; wishes he could look Harry in the eye and demand, _“So what are you going to do about it?”_

Maybe he would’ve done that in the past, but things have changed.

“I’m sorry,” Louis mumbles, pressing his cheek against Harry’s chest.

Harry tightens his grasp on Louis, and he feels something light press on the top of his head. He shuts his eyes and pretends that it’s what he wants it to be.

“It’s okay.” The rumble in his chest tickles Louis' face. It is gentle and easing.

After that, they fall into a comfortable silence, but he knows it’s not permanent. It’s only one night together, and that’s it. That’s all that this will ever be. He doesn’t know what will happen to them after this, and that thought scares him. All he does know is that they weren’t destined for nights of like these anymore, of soft touches and soothing voices and warm bodies. And for some reason, that just makes him want to cry more, so he sinks his body into Harry’s, digs his head into his shoulder, and lets him keep him safe for the night.

 

.

 

Harry ends up in his house more and more often after that incident, for whatever fucked up reason. Louis had been cold about it at first, insisting that he doesn’t want Harry’s pity and pushing him out of the house. But every time he had kicked him out, Harry always comes back the next day with a batch of pastries or chocolate or _something_ in his hand. He had quickly affirmed the fact that he wasn’t here to comfort Louis.

Not that Louis is complaining, of course; he wants to spend as much time with Harry as he could… it’s just not really good for his poor, fragile heart.

It’s so utterly domestic - Harry showing up and entering without warning, sometimes bringing groceries or beer or sweets for them to share while Louis finalizes the rest of the details for his album. He doesn’t seem to mind sitting in silence and watching him as Louis works. It sends prickles down his spine but he curses and shoves it to the back of his mind, forcing himself to _focus_.

He hasn’t even chosen an album cover yet and shit, he’s gotta do that soon. He is tempted to ask Harry to do it for him since it would save money, and Harry’s an incredible photographer anyway.

 _No. Fuck. No that would be a bad idea. W_ ould it really? _Yes. Bad idea. Very bad._

And yet, he wants it to happen anyway.

He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from blurting out something that he shouldn’t say. He turns around from where he’s sitting on the couch to look at Harry, who’s making tea in Louis’ kitchen. He watches as Harry twirls around, sifting through his cupboards and letting the tea steep in the two cups. Harry’s soft, lilting humming fills the room. It’s so quiet that Louis must strain to hear it, but it’s beautiful nonetheless. There’s an overwhelming feeling of fondness that suffocates Louis. He doesn’t want it to ever stop.

Harry shoves a cup of tea into his face, snapping him out of his daze. He’s not sure when Harry had headed towards him in the first place

“I figure you’d want some, as well. Hope you don’t mind me raiding your cabinets.”

Louis murmurs his thanks, grabbing the cup with both hands. He blinks fast to regain his whereabouts, gaze resting on his hands, which wrap around the mug with long fingers. Harry chuckles as he comes around the couch to sit next to Louis. He knocks their knees and shoulders together, and Louis doesn’t move away. Despite common sense telling him that he shouldn’t, he likes being so close to him.

“What’re you thinking about?” asks Harry, turning his head to look straight at Louis. It pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Mmh, nothing that important.”

“C’mon mate, lemme hear what’s on your mind.”

Louis hesitates before answering slowly, “I haven’t picked out an album cover yet. I’m not sure what to do for it, whether I even want my face on it, ‘n everything.”

Harry hums. “I think it would be nice. Have a photoshoot, why not? And if you really don’t like those pictures you can always go with your little smiley face. It’s better to have more options than less, right?” He has a good point. “Plus, I think you _should_ have your face on the cover. It’s a nice face. Fans’ll love seeing it every day.”

“Some of ‘em already do look at my face every day,” Louis mutters before blowing on the surface of his tea and taking another sip. He refuses to look at Harry, who seems to be burning holes into his side with his eyes.

“That’s true,” Harry concedes, “and I don’t blame them.” Louis breath hitches in his chest as they make eye contact. Harry gives him a lopsided smile, and he quickly looks away, back down at his steaming drink. His cheeks burn, and he hopes that they aren’t pink. _Fuck you, Harry Styles, for doing this to me_.

“Maybe I’ll uh…… maybe I’ll do that.” He coughs to clear his throat. “The photoshoot thing, I mean.” Louis winces because he knows he sounds like a dumbass, but he can’t help it; Harry just has that kind of dumbass-causing effect on him.

“What’re you thinking about doing?” Harry continues on, as if the words that came out of Louis’ mouth didn’t sound absolutely ridiculous, “Because I know you did that… _woozy_ thing with the cover of your first single. Would you do something like that, or something more… laidback, I guess? Have you thought about the kind of mood you’re trying to convey with your album?”

Louis chews on his bottom lip. “I haven’t given it much thought,” he admits, “It’s always been something on the back of my mind. But I want something that’s… abstract yet meaningful and intimate, y’know? Something that no one’s done before.” _Like what you’ve done with yours_.

That last part lingers before them, unsaid but well understood by both of them.

His gaze flickers up to meet Harry’s just as Harry looks down. He brushes through his long curls with his fingers, tousling it in the process. Louis wants to play with it and braid his locks and pull on it and tuck it behind Harry’s ear.

“Would you....” Louis’ fucking mouth doesn’t know when to shut up, apparently, because it’s spilling out shit he’s been too nervous to say before this. The urge in his gut to ask is too strong to resist, and even though his body is still wracked with anxiety, it forces him to blurt out, “Do you want to take the pictures? Y-you don’t have to, it’s just I know you like photography and you’re _really_ good at it and I haven’t even thought about what kinds of pictures I want for my album but you always come up with these incredible ideas and I’m… just gonna shut -”

“Yes.” Harry’s hasty answer sends kisses to his soul. If anyone could see inside him, they would find that he is dancing with joy. “Of course, that would be my pleasure.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to -”

“I want to. I swear. It would be an honor.” His lips quirk up in a small, shy smile. Louis' heart does backflips and cartwheels in his chest as he threatens to vomit out butterflies. His fingers tingle with excitement or nervousness or joy or fucking _love_ or whatever. _Whatever_.

Louis returns Harry’s smile with one of his own. He can’t help it as his grin grows wide and big and he knocks his knee against Harry’s. Right now, he’s so happy that he could kiss him again and cradle his face with his hands and laugh into his mouth and kiss him some more. He wants to, so fucking bad. _Fuck_ . The things Harry does to him. _For him._

But he’s still holding his tea and Harry is too (he hasn’t even fucking taken a single sip, that bastard), and they’re _friends_ , not lovers. It is something that he needs to keep reminding himself, because if he doesn’t, he is terrified that he’ll forget and kiss him again.

“I just -” Louis starts.

“When do you -” Harry begins. They both shut up after talking over each other. There is a brief pause before Louis giggles. He signals for Harry to continue with a wave of his hand. Just to reaffirm his statement, he downs the last of his tea with a raise of his eyebrows.

“When do you want to do this? I’m free most of next week,” Harry quips.

“That’s perfect, thank you. Holy shit, you’re amazing.” Louis can’t believe that this is actually happening. When did life turn out so well for him?

Harry chuckles. “So I’ve been told.”

Louis can’t help but roll his eyes. “Shut up,” he groans, pushing hard against Harry’s body. Harry, that jackass, just laughs even harder.

Despite all his grievances, there is only one word Louis can use to describe his feelings at the moment: _fond_.

 

.

 

Louis had rented out a warehouse for the sole purpose of his photoshoot. It had been an impulse decision, but he’s glad that he did so. Now, he has full reign to do anything he wants in a private location with no judgment.

On the day of, he is shirtless most of the time, even though the temperature inside is kind of cold. He’s got goose pimples on his arms because of the crisp air. Harry has hired an artist, who turns Louis’ body into a canvas of colours and acrylic paint. It covers his entire face and chest. He can’t even lick his lips, as even those have splotches of black and blue on them.

He only keeps his trousers on, which are a pair of slim-fitting beige khakis that he’d never wear on any other occasion; even his shoes have been taken off. The first time he sees himself like this, it takes away his breath. The works of art on his body are a whole jumble of everything: of tattoos he wishes he had; of words and phrases he holds dear to his heart; of little doodles and big designs; or black and white and shades of grey.

He can barely even recognize himself like this, but if he looks closely in the mirror of their makeshift dressing room in the middle of the warehouse, he can see the curves of his eyebrow; the shape of his jaw; the lines of his collarbone; the shadows of his stomach; the divot of his bellybutton. He isn’t used to seeing his body like this.

He’s got two backdrops, one white and one dark grey, set up in the warehouse. Harry hasn’t given him a single hint about what he wanted for this photoshoot. He’s left it all one big mystery, which Louis appreciates and is excited to be a part of, because, hell, he doesn’t even know what _he_ wants from this.

Harry walks into the set, a few minutes later than the arranged time. Louis can’t find it in him to be mad about it because Harry’s always slightly late to everything. Harry’s got his camera around his neck, hair pushed back with a rolled-up bandana, tattoos covered by a knit sweater.

Louis knows that this is _his_ photoshoot, but Harry is the one that looks like he should be photographed. He has the urge to rip the camera off the neck and switch their roles.

Harry gives him a little smile that Louis reciprocates. His eyes roam once over Louis’ painted body. It sends shivers down his spine, even though he knows he’s just appreciating the art, not his actual body. Louis bows his head, embarrassed and self-conscious. He’s not sure why he’s embarrassed; Harry’s seen him with fewer clothes than this. But for some reason, this feels more intimate. He heads towards Harry, bare feet hitting the cold, concrete floor.

“Nice,” Harry murmurs.

“Thanks,” Louis breathes out. He’s not sure what Harry is complimenting him on, but he feels kind of flustered and dizzy at the moment because Harry’s still staring at him with the same appreciative look. It makes him a little breathless. He doesn’t like this attention. (Yes he does.)

“Should we, erm… “ Harry coughs. “Should we get this started?”

“Oh. Uh. Yea.” That snaps him out of whatever trance Louis was in, and he blinks fast. They both rush over to the grey backdrop. “If you don’t like this paint I can take it off -”

“N-no, I love it,” Harry says quickly. “It’s amazing. Abstract, just like you said you wanted. We could always do another shoot where you don’t have anything on - like paint wise I mean, not clothes or anything, fuck. Sorry. That came out wrong.”

Louis laughs, even though his stomach is writhing with nerves. “Shall we just get started?”

“Yes.Whatever you wanna do.”

 _That’s a lot of leeway_ , Louis thinks.

It takes him a moment to think about what he wants to do. When he’s finally decided, Louis raises his head up slightly, looking back down at the lens with hooded eyes, lips slightly apart. He keeps his face stone cold, devoid of any emotion. Years of posing and modeling has helped him learn how to work the camera.

He hears the camera shutter click, and he takes a deep breath in and bows his head slightly, eyelashes fluttering as he looks at the ground. He hopes this doesn’t look as awkward as it feels. There’s a tingle of discomfort that tickles the base of his neck and the back of his arms, making him antsy. But he keeps doing what he’s doing, posing the way he’s posing, even though he doesn’t feel like the model in the room - Harry’s always been the gorgeous one, not him.

_Click._

He just hopes he’s doing okay. Harry hasn’t told him otherwise, so he’s just going to keep this up until Harry tells him to stop. He looks up and stares straight at the camera.

 _Click_.

He resists the urge to moisten his lips. His eyes flutter shut for a brief moment to suppress his anxiety. It hasn’t left him since the beginning of this shoot. His heart flutters in his chest.

 _Click_.

“Can I tell you what to do?” Harry’s low voice pulls him out of a trance. It sounds hoarse and quiet. Louis stifles a shudder.

“Yes.” His own voice sounds equally rough.

“Alright. Erm. Pull your shoulders back, then. Straighten your back. Tilt your head all the way back, like… expose your neck. Yeah, like that.” Louis obeys and keeps his eyes closed in the process. The position sends a tickle down the base of his spine. The position is laced with intimacy and sex, even though it’s only supposed to be Harry’s artistic expression. But it still sends a thrum of… _something_ through his body.

 _Click_.

“Perfect,” Harry murmurs. “Prayer hands, please.”

Louis pulls his hands in front of him, palms pressed together, fingers straight, in front of his lips. He looks straight at the camera again, whose lens is focused inches away from him.

 _Click_.

“Look down?” He does. He’d do whatever Harry told him to do if he just asked.

 _Click_.

Everything just seems so personal. It’s not like Louis has never had photos taken of him before, because he has, hundreds of times; it’s just this photoshoot seems so different compared to all others. Maybe it’s because it’s Harry taking pictures of him and not some random photographer; maybe it’s because it’s just the two of them alone in the warehouse with his artist, who only gets close to them to apply touch-ups on the places he’s worn away the paint; maybe it’s because the concept of this shoot is so unique from anything else he’s done before; maybe it’s because Louis is in love with the man taking photos of him.

The camera moves farther back and is lowered down to the same level of Louis’ collarbone. He doesn’t dare to move an inch, chest barely rising as he takes shallow breaths.

 _Click_ . _Click._

“Can you sit down for me? Yeah, thank you. Arse on the ground, feet out in front of you. Spread your legs a little more, yeah. You can bend your knees a bit more. Use your hands to steady yourself if you need to. Like… lean back on your hands, if you want. And loosen up, you look too tense... Better.”

Louis sucks in a sharp intake of breath as he listens to Harry’s every command, moving just the way he’s been told to. He presses his palms flat to the ground behind him and uses his arms to support his weight. He feels so exposed like this, chest bare and feet naked. His trousers are the only thing separating him and everything else.

The camera takes multiple fast, consecutive shots. Louis tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck and jaw and collarbone. He gazes up at the metal beams by the ceiling, taking note of how they criss-cross, following the trail they make as they run from one end of the building to the other. It takes his mind off of the situation at hand and soothes the butterflies in his chest.

_Click. Click._

“Lemme get one of your face again. It’s incredible.”

Louis turns to face Harry directly. He knows that Harry means the artwork on his face is incredible - Louis wholeheartedly agrees - but his chest tightens up nonetheless. He can pretend for a while that Harry’s talking about him and not the paintings.

 _“One shot”_ turns into _two_ which turns into _three_ or _four_ or _five_. Louis loses count of how many pictures Harry takes of his face.

They take a few more pictures like this, then switch to the white backdrop for a bit. Harry doesn’t seem to like that as much as the other one, so they switch back only moments later. Under any other circumstance, Louis might complain about the hassle, but all the whining dies down fast in his throat.

After more poses and _click_ ’s, Harry’s soon done with the photoshoot. He insists that Louis goes away to change and clean off the cracking paint, refusing to show him even _some_ of the photos he took.

The air is charged. Neither of them talk about the atmosphere between them. Louis just thanks him and asks for Harry to wait for him so they can head back to his house and look at the pictures together.

“How about my house instead? I can print them out and see which ones we like the best,” Harry offers. Of course he has a photo printer.

“Yes, that’s fine,” Louis hastily agrees and leaves so he can take off the paint with his artist.

Together, they work to get most of the paint off. The color-stained water falls onto the concrete floor and down his torso. The water drips everywhere and allows for the paint to run down his body. Some of it gets soaked up by the waistband of his khakis, turning the fabric a rainbow of colors. He’s glad that these pants were cheap. He wants to ask Harry to take pictures of him like this, but perhaps that’s a little _too_ much. He doesn’t want to sound bossy, after all.

The removal process takes much longer than expected; the paint isn’t coming off in certain areas, even after he’s rubbed himself red and raw with a sponge and picked at it until it’s under his fingernails. He and his artist have gotten as much of it off as they can, and he supposes that’ll have to do. After what felt like ages, he gives up, drying himself and shrugging on his hoodie. It’ll all come off eventually, anyway.

He thanks the artist graciously for her work, writing her a check for a large sum of money and giving her a tight hug. They promise to see each other soon and part ways on good terms. He goes to find Harry, who’s wandered away somewhere in this warehouse, nowhere to be seen.

“Harold?” he calls out. His voice echoes in the wide expanse of the room.

“Over here,” Harry responds. He’s busy texting someone when Louis comes over. Harry must’ve set the camera down somewhere because it’s not wrapped around his neck. Louis’ brows furrow when he realizes that he doesn’t have Harry’s full attention. Why does he want it so bad? He frowns and stamps down his frustration.

Louis clears his throat before he speaks, forcing himself out of his bad mood. “Are you ready to go?” he asks. He plays with the strings on his hoodie, forcing himself to act nonchalant when his gut is in extreme inner turmoil. Harry blinks rapidly as he looks up from his phone, shoving it back in his pocket.

“Lemme grab my stuff and we’ll head to mine, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure,” Louis responds, voice too bright to sound natural. He bites back a grimace at his overenthusiasm.

“D’you want a ride to mine? Or are you alright?”

“I can drive over, I’d rather not leave me car here,” he answers, despite every nerve in his body itching to get in the same car as Harry. He must keep himself in control; he’s twenty-seven, for fuck’s sake.

Harry pauses. His lips quirk up in a small smile, and _oh_ , that dimple. “Why’d you make me wait for you to clean up before I go if we’re not even taking the same car home?”

_Home._

Louis frowns before lightly shoving Harry, cheeks aflame. “Fuck off mate, I didn’t think about that until now.” He’s such a dumbass sometimes.

Harry chuckles. “Whatever. I’ll meet you at my house and I’ll show you the pictures we got. _I_ think they’ve turned out pretty well.”

Louis glares at Harry with a small pout. “You always think you’ve done everything _pretty well_ ,” he mutters.

“Piss off,” Harry says with a laugh, “It’s because things usually turn out _pretty well_ for me.” _Everything but him and Louis, apparently_. “Hope you like em, and if not…” Harry shrugs. “We can always take more.”

“Yeah, I suppose we can.” Louis hums. “I have confidence that I’ll enjoy them.” He gives Harry a stupid grin before quickly covering it up with a cough. “I er…. I think I should go? We gotta get to yours, after all.”

 _We_.

What a powerful word.

“Yeah, then I’ll lead the way?” Harry heads towards the white backdrop to pick up some stuff he’d left on the ground: his keys, camera, and an empty coffee cup. “Unless you think you can find your way to mine without me.”

Louis shakes his head, even though Harry can’t see what he’s doing. “No, I’ll wait for you. Don’t wanna get lost, do I?” he responds, the corner of his lip quirking up.

“Of course not; what good would that be to the world?” Harry says, in the same mockingly serious tone. But when he glances up and makes eye contact with Louis, they both break down into giggles.

Harry’s an easy car to follow; a black convertible on the barren roads of a quiet town. Louis is right behind him. The drive back is… not quiet, Louis supposes, as he’s got the stereo turned up, but lonely. He doesn’t like being left to his thoughts, and, while the radio usually provides a good distraction, it doesn’t seem to work this time. After spending his entire morning and afternoon with Harry, having some time to himself seems wrong, like he’s missing something. He spends the entire car ride thinking about him.

Once they arrive, Harry excuses himself for a few minutes to go and print out the pictures, leaving Louis to take a deep breath in and settle down on the white couch in his (massive) living room. He rubs his clammy palms on the thighs of his pants as he looks around. It’s hardly the first time he’s been here, but there’s always been something homey about it that Louis loves.

It’s changed quite a bit since the last time he’d stepped foot in here, almost three years ago. The acoustic and electric guitars that hang from the white walls of the living room and the plush, shag rug under his feet and the embroidered Gucci cushions… they’re just some of the things he has never seen before, things that Harry must’ve bought after their split. The place is a bit of a mess, with coffee mugs, newspapers, and stationary lying everywhere, but that’s nothing that Louis is surprised to see. It sure is tidier than his own house has ever been.

Louis checks his phone for notifications, pulling up Twitter for a bit before switching to Instagram. There’s never really anything interesting online anymore. Social media’s a bit of a bore when you don’t have full reign of it all, and it’s not like he’d be able to tell the whole world that he’s spending time with Harry, anyway. He perks up right away when he hears Harry’s coming down the stairs, footsteps heavy with each landing, and places his phone on the brown coffee table in front of him.

“I’ve got ‘em all printed out; I accidentally took so many that I think I’m gonna have to buy more photo paper soon,” Harry says, plopping a large stack of pictures on the coffee table. He doesn’t even bother moving the junk that was originally on the table away, creating an even larger mess in front of them. Louis’ eyebrows raise high at the number of photos on the table.

Louis scoots over to make room for Harry on the couch - not that the couch is small in the first place - and starts sifting through the photos.

They’re incredible, needless to say. Never before has he examined photos of himself like this. Even with the thousands of photoshoots he’s done in the past, none of them seem to have been intimate as these. The images capture divots and curves and freckles that Louis is surprised to find on his own body. The grey background sets a bleak tone to all of these photos. Louis loves it. When he looks over, Harry is chewing on his thumb, brows furrowed.

He places a hand on Harry’s knee. “You alright?” Louis asks, even though he’s almost certain he knows what’s bothering his friend.

“Yea, I’m fine, I’m just…” Harry trails off, but he doesn’t look less disturbed.

Louis has read his mind already, though, and interrupts him. “These photos are absolutely stunning. You did an amazing job at all of these; it’s gonna be so hard to choose just _one_ for the album cover. Thank you.”

Harry lets out a soft breath. His shoulders drop down and he gives Louis a soft smile. “Thank _you_ ,” he says before directing his attention back to the pictures. “I didn’t take the time to sort through these beforehand, so there might be some shitty shots,” he admits.

“Oh, don’t sweat it. Honestly, the ones I’ve seen already are bloody amazing. It’s gonna be fuckin’ hard to choose which one is my favorite out of _all of these!”_ Louis gestures to the massive pile in front of them.

“Sorry,” Harry laughs, “It’s not my fault you looked so fucking amazing.”

Louis feels the warmth spread through his toes. His fingers tingle with delight at the small compliment. He flashes Harry a bright smile before turning back to the photos. Just by skimming through the photo, Louis knows for sure that this is going to be a long process.

By the end of two hours, they’ve managed to sort through only about half of the pile. They’ve got three organized stacks of photos: a “trash” pile, another for the good ones, and another for their favorites. There’s so many in each pile already, and Louis knows that he’ll probably go back and look through all of them again, just to make sure he’s not truly sleeping on a good potential cover photo. Even if he doesn’t end up using them, he knows that he’ll still keep them in a cherished location.

Louis’ brain is so overworked and overwhelmed from thinking for that long, and also from just being around Harry for so long. All he wants to do is cuddle and kiss the man next to him. His skin itches to do something, but every single time the desire arises, he stifles it back down. It feels like a war with himself.

He sighs and leans back to lie down sideways on the couch, resting his forearm over his eyes to block out the light, curling his legs in so he can fit more comfortably. The couch hugs him and Louis wants to hug it back. His head is right by Harry’s thigh. How easy it would be to just set his head on Harry’s lap. Or suck his dick. Both seem like pleasant ideas at the moment.

He’s so tired, so mentally drained from such a long day.

“Shall we stop for today?” Harry inquires, and nothing has ever sounded like a better plan than that.

“Yes please,” Louis mumbles, not even bothering to move.

He can feel himself dozing off. He can’t help it; it’s been such an emotionally exhausting day. His brain has been transformed into mush thanks to Harry. He’s quite aware of the man that’s sitting next to him, but he can’t care less. He’s so fucking tired at this point.

Harry chuckles. If Louis were more awake than he is at the moment, he’d probably swat him or something for laughing at him, but now is not the time.

He doesn’t quite register the calloused fingers that cup his jaw and skim down his neck. They’re gone soon enough that Louis doesn’t pay them any mind.

The couch shifts like a weight’s been relieved from the seat cushions as Harry gets up. Louis doesn’t whine when Harry leaves. He’s very comfortable where he is, even without him.

Harry comes back rather quickly and drapes a blanket on top of Louis. It’s warm and soft and smells like _Hazza_. Louis immediately digs his face into it, embracing the warmth, and pulling it all the way over his shoulders. A hand strokes Louis’ hair, running from the top of his forehead to the crown of his skull. He takes no mind of that either.

He barely feels the kiss to his scalp, pressed softly into his hair.

 

.

 

The next morning his shoulders, neck, and back ache like a bitch, but he feels fully refreshed - the first time that’s happened in a long while. He stretches from where he lays, back arching and arms placed over his head, taking a deep inhale as he does so. It smells like… breakfast and coffee?

He didn’t bother to change before he fell asleep, so he’s still in yesterday’s dirty khakis and sweatshirt. His mouth is sour and his breath probably reeks. He probably looks like shit, and he definitely feels disgusting, but at least he isn’t tired for once. He pads into the kitchen, where Harry stands by the electric stove, wearing a ratty t-shirt and a pair of boxers, hair clipped out of his face with one of those massive hair claws.

“G’mornin,” Louis mumbles, still groggy from his sleep. He heads right towards Harry, standing off to the side to keep out of the way.

Harry turns around quickly, startled by the sound of another man’s voice. “Morning!” he sings before resuming his cooking. He sounds too cheerful for someone up so early. Louis had completely forgotten just how active Harry can be in the mornings.

Though Louis is wide awake, he just _can’t_ function in early daytime. Today, unlike most mornings, he’s in the mood to be nice and make conversation. Perhaps it’s Harry’s charm that makes him want to be personable.

“What time is it?” he asks, tucking his cold hands into his armpits.

“Mmm, it’s probably about eight in the morning.” Louis winces at the time. He didn’t mean to fall asleep for so long. Harry doesn’t notice, and continues, “You fell asleep pretty early, probably around nine or ten? I didn’t feel like bothering you to go home because I know you don’t like to be woken up and you would’ve been rather useless, anyway, if I did.”

“Okay, that’s _not_ true,” Louis mutters under his breath.

Harry hums, “It really is, love.” Louis huffs in indignation, which sparks a chuckle from Harry. As much as he’d argue, Harry _does_ speak the truth. There’s only one reason why Louis would ever want to be woken up, but he leaves it unsaid. It’s a bit inappropriate, to be honest.

Either way, Louis is quite grateful that Harry didn’t wake him up. He’d probably fall asleep at the wheel if he had been forced to go home last night.

Turning the conversation around, he apologizes sheepishly. “Mmh, yeah sorry about that… and I didn’t mean to fall asleep on your couch, by the way.”

Harry waves him off with the hand that’s not holding the spatula. “No worries, honestly. I love having people over, and you weren’t bothersome or anything at all. And I made breakfast, if you’re okay with that. I know you didn’t ask, but I figured that you’d like some before you go - I mean if you really want to go, since you probably want to get changed n’ stuff - and I was already making some for myself so it wasn’t really that big of a hassle...”

A quiet laugh rises in Louis’ chest without his permission. “Yes, I’d love some breakfast, thank you,” he says, placing a hand on Harry’s bicep. Harry’s smile to his response is so wide and radiant. His dimples are so prominent, it seems like they might tear his face in pieces. The sight of them fills Louis’ heart with a surge of warmth. He wants to make Harry smile like that all the time.

He pulls himself out of his Harry-loving daze and asks, “And is it okay if I, like, get cleaned up a bit? I definitely look and smell like shit.”

“You do _not!_ ” Harry scoffs.

Louis rolls his eyes, which Harry returns with one of his own, and swats him in response. “Don’t bullshit me, Styles,” he warns.

“Whatever, go shower and brush your teeth n’ whatever else you wanna do. Breakfast won’t be done for another fifteen or so, so that gives you some time. There should be extra toothbrushes in the, er…. in the cabinet below the sink, I think.” Harry’s eyebrows furrow, like he can’t remember whether there truly are toothbrushes down there. “And if not, you can always use mine, I guess. I don’t really care that much as long as you don’t, either; I’ve gotta throw it out soon, anyway.”

Louis gives him a thoughtful nod, ignoring the flutter in his gut Harry’s casual offer. Before Harry’s attention is diverted back to their breakfast, he can’t help but make a teasing remark as a way to calm his nerves.

“What happens if I don’t finish by the time breakfast is ready?” he asks, leaning forward a bit and cocking his head as he rocks on the balls of his feet. His lips curve up in a shy but cheeky smile.

“Then I guess you’ll just have to starve,” Harry replies back easily, flicking his hair back in a nonchalant way and returning to his cooking

Laughter bubbles up from Louis’ chest. “Guess I gotta hurry then,” he chuckles.

It feels like an intrusion of private life, being in Harry’s bathroom. This isn’t his first time here, but it’s far different from the last time he’s been in here. Despite it being two years since he’s stepped foot in Harry’s house, the bathroom still looks the same as he remembers it. Left to his own accords, the memories of them, _together_ in this room, flood back to him. They used to get ready together here, each of them doing their own individual morning routine, laughing at each other’s shaving cream beards and toothpaste foam drool, basking in each other’s presence. Louis runs his fingertips over the counter. They’ fucked on it countless times. He glances at the shower. They had done it in there, as well.

He used to be so different when he was with Harry - happier, more carefree, daring… what had happened? After basking in the warmth of his memories, he shakes himself out of his daze. Looking back on his past is humbling. Still disoriented, he fishes for a new toothbrush, which he finds under the cupboard, as Harry had said he would. He forces himself to resist the temptation of snooping around in Harry’s cupboards. After all, he is a polite, respectful man who does _not_ invade anyone’s personal privacy, no matter how enticing it may be.

He brushes his teeth and washes his grime away, watching the water swirl down the shower drain, taking his time. Sometimes he forgets that Harry is a multimillionaire pop star. It’s not like Louis isn’t either; it’s just that Harry can be so modest, especially with his personality and belongings, that it slips Louis’ mind that the man is just as wealthy - if not more - than he is.

His thoughts tend to travel in the shower, right now is no exception. It doesn’t take long until he’s thinking about the amount of time he’s wasted being away from Harry. These past years without him seem empty. He has been swimming, wading, and drowning in an ocean of his sorry thoughts. There are so many things that they never did together, so many things that they could’ve been, if they had simply worked harder to keep their relationship alive. Everything seems so fragile yet familiar. None the components of their shattered past have been cleaned up yet, and Louis knows he has to tread lightly, but he can’t. Now that he’s had the opportunity to have a second taste of Harry Styles, he doesn’t know why he ever thought that it was a good idea to leave him in the first place.

Perhaps he’s been in the shower for far too long because Harry knocks on the door.

“Lou?” Harry calls.

“Shit,” Louis mutters under his breath. “Yea, sorry, I’ll be out soon,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the hissing of the shower.

“N-no, it’s fine, I’m just gonna leave some clean clothes for you outside. Take as much time as you need. Er… breakfast is ready, whenever you want it.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles, more to himself than to Harry.

Louis is surprised and touched by the kind gesture. His gut screams “ _domesticity_ ” but he ignores it on the hope that his mind doesn’t catch on. To no avail, it’s too late.

When he goes to grab the pile of clothes left on the floor outside the bathroom, he can’t help but wonder if this is how his life could be like again. _Would he always do this for me?_

He already smells like Harry’s shampoo and body wash; smelling like his laundry detergent doesn’t seem like such a big thing anymore. At least, that’s what he chants over-and-over to himself as he shrugs on the beige sweater over his still-damp torso, pulls on the briefs over his bum, and puts the joggers on over his briefs. He cuffs the sleeves of the sweater and the legs of the joggers until they fit. This is uncanny; fuck Harry and his larger-sized clothing.

He heads back down to the kitchen, where his breakfast is cooling on the counter. He hopes that his food isn’t cold yet. Harry spots him right away and stalls for a moment, holding the bag of tea leaves in his hand like they’ve got nowhere else to go. His lips part, eyes wide, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Louis ruffles his hair and averts his eyes down to the ground by Harry’s bare feet, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot, suddenly self-conscious about the fact that he is _wearing Harry’s clothes_. He prays that he isn’t blushing.

Harry quickly reverts back to his old self, resuming his previous activities like nothing had happened. He drops the tea bag into the mug and pours in the hot water and lets the tea steep for a bit as he makes a cup of coffee for himself. Louis shuffles around awkwardly before settling down on a stool in front of the plate of food.

It’s a classic English breakfast, and Louis’ heart twists in his chest. He hasn’t had a proper breakfast meal in ages. It’s funny how Harry’s the one to break this odd dry spell.

Wearing Harry’s clothes while smelling like him is a concept that Louis still cannot wrap his head around. It’s too domestic. Waking up to the smell of coffee and food is too domestic. Harry making Louis tea and an English breakfast is too domestic. His gut urges him to run away before he gets hurt, but he _can’t_. No matter how hard he tries, he just can’t get away.

Because he’s _so_ in love with Harry Styles.

He looks up, just as he’s about to put the first bite of bacon into his mouth, and makes eye contact with Harry. Harry’s got this crooked smile on his face as they stare at each other. His eyes are all crinkly and soft. Louis can’t help but feel bashful. His lips pull up into a large smile as he looks down, fixing his damp fringe and shoving the fork into his mouth to hide his grin. His cheeks feel hot, his fingers and toes are tingly and warm.

Harry sets the cup of tea in front of Louis, who mumbles thanks between his mouthfuls of food. He eats his breakfast like this: Harry watching him the entire time with a glimmer in his eyes; Louis feels all warm and yet so self-conscious at the same time, because Harry’s watchful gaze makes him feel clumsy and shy. They don’t speak a single word as he eats.

They resume yesterday’s activities, settling back on the couch and picking out the best photos and tossing the worst ones in the trash pile. Maybe they sit too close, pressed almost flush together, hands brushing as they look at the pictures together, but no one’s here to stop them from doing so.

Harry is close enough that Louis can kiss him if he leaned forward a couple inches. He can see the faint hint of stubble that sits on Harry’s top lip. He can see the curve in his eyelashes and the individual hairs in his eyebrows. And even though Harry, who sits next to him in a raggedy shirt and joggers, might not look as presentable as he always does, he’s still somehow the most beautiful man Louis has ever laid eyes on.

Apparently, Harry’s been saying something to him this entire time, because when Louis pulls himself out of his trance, Harry’s chuckling at him.

Louis coughs and clears his throat. “Fuck, sorry what did you say?” he stammers out, embarrassed to be caught staring.

“I _said_ : I think I prefer the photos of you with the dark background, what about you?” Harry smirks at him and Louis shoots him a pointed look over his embarrassment. He doesn’t seem annoyed to be admired, only amused.

“I… I think you’re right,” he says back, giving Harry a small, weak grin in return.

“Well, that narrows down our options.” Harry collects all the pictures of Louis with the white background and tosses them in the _trash_ pile.

“Whoa whoa, hold on, I still wanna look at them,” Louis says, placing his hand on top of Harry’s knee to stop him from doing anything else. Harry rolls his eyes, but rubs his thumb over the back of Louis’ hand.

“You should’ve said so _before_ I tossed ‘em, mate.”

“I didn’t think you’d _toss_ em!”

Harry gives him such a massive smile and his eyes are full of mirth and his dimples are so deep and his hair falls so perfectly in his face and he’s so _stunning_ that he keeps taking Louis’ breath away and all of a sudden, Louis is surging forwards and his lips are crashing into Harry’s and his hands have tangled themselves in those beautiful locks and Harry’s let out a little noise out of surprise and they’re falling onto the couch, unbalanced from the momentum of Louis’ kiss, Harry back-first, Louis settling right on top of him. Harry’s big hands come and rest on the back of Louis’ neck, right where his hair tickles his skin, and _oh my God he’s kissing me back_.

He finally pulls back, breathless and breathing hard into Harry’s mouth. Harry’s lips curve up in a breathless laugh, and then Louis starts to laugh because of that, and maybe because of his extreme nerves, until they’re both laughing almost hysterically. Their foreheads and tips of their noses are still pressed together. Louis shifts to relieve his weight over Harry until he can rest his head on Harry’s chest.

“Jesus, I can’t believe I’ve just done that,” Louis laughs into the junction of Harry’s shoulder. He is overwhelmed by nerves, barely able to catch a controlled breath as he lies there. He can feel Harry’s shakes of laughter, noises reverberating in his chest, as he watches his hand shake in front of his own eyes.

“I  can’t believe I wasn’t the first one to do that,” Harry admits, hand resting on Louis’ head, combing through his hair, “You looked _really_ good during breakfast, and I was thinking about kissing you during breakfast, but then I was like, ‘No, I don’t want our first kiss to taste like fuckin’ _egg_.’”

Louis snorts and digs his forehead into Harry’s chest.

“Shut up,” he protests, but it’s without any malice. “At least you didn’t snog me _before_ I brushed my teeth.”

“You would’ve liked it if I did, wouldn’t you?”

“Don’t act so cocky, so would you,” Louis counters, and Harry doesn’t deny it. He only laughs.

Everything feels so natural, like they’ve always been meant to kiss. He can’t believe they haven’t been doing _this_ for the last few years: cuddling, laughing, _talking_. They’ve been missing out on so much. He sighs, more to himself than anything, because this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Harry, fingers still carding through Louis’ hair, nudges Louis. “Move for a second, my leg’s falling asleep,” he says. Louis hums in acknowledgment, sitting up and letting Harry get comfortable before he’s dragged back down to Harry’s chest again. He laughs in surprise but secretly loves all the attention. His laughter is silenced with another kiss, and for the first time in years, he feels completely content.

They stay like that for a while, doing nothing but cuddling and kissing and dozing off - at least in Louis’ case. Harry had turned on the TV while Louis was asleep, so they watch whatever’s on. Despite how happy he is at the moment, there’s still something that’s nagging in Louis’ gut this entire time. The anxiety getting worse and worse the longer they stay cuddled like this.

“Should we talk about this?” Louis blurts, raising his head to look Harry in the eyes.

Harry frowns. “I suppose, but can we do that later? We still have work to do afterwards, and I’d rather do nothing right now.”

Louis groans, “Can we look at these pictures _while_ we cuddle?”

Harry laughs. “Sure.” He urges Louis up for a moment to lean over to grab a stack of unseen photos. Once he lays back down, Louis settles back down.

They stay like that, sorting through all the pictures, which Harry insists are all amazing because they’re pictures of Louis.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he says softly, while Louis buries his head in Harry’s chest in embarrassment because it clearly isn’t true. He’s not the beautiful one - Harry is. He always has been, but Louis doesn’t mention it out loud.

They end up cuddling and kissing for the next few hours, even after it has gotten dark. Every time their kisses start getting heavy, they force themselves to pull away, with the promise of _later_ unsaid between them. And if Louis intentionally shifts in Harry’s lap to grind against him more than once, then no one has to know.

Somehow, between their extensive make-out sessions, they have managed to whittle down the number of photos from almost seventy to about fifteen. It’s still a lot, but not as much as before.

“Perhaps I should add the rest of these pictures to the lyric booklet or something,” Louis muses. “There are just so many good pictures.”

“That’s because you’re such a good model.”

Louis shoves him roughly, but it doesn’t do much damage as Harry just falls deeper into the couch cushions. “Shut up, it’s because you’re such a good photographer.”

Harry swats him lightly. “Shut up,” he murmurs and brings Louis up for a light kiss. Louis lets himself be swept away into the kiss, shutting his eyes. He runs a hand up Harry’s jaw and pulls on his hair. Harry groans into his mouth, making Louis grin and laugh against his lips.

“Can we have sex now?” Louis breathes.

“Yeah, Jesus, c’mon.”

And as he’s getting pulled to his feet and urged to the bedroom, he’s got one thought that’s running through his mind. _Nothing could ever be better than this._

 

.

 

“Harry, we’re dating right?”

Louis didn’t mean to blurt out the question now. It had been a constant feeling of unease that had been gnawing at him ever since the first day they properly kissed, almost two weeks ago. He fiddles with his thumbs, awaiting a response. The inquiry must strike Harry by surprise, because he looks up from his work. It strikes Louis by surprise as well, to be honest.

Harry puts his journal down on the table in front of them and turns to face him as Louis sets down his laptop. Louis’ nerves skyrocket, pulse pounding as the silence drags out.

“Yes, if you want us to,” Harry says, dragging out the words even slower than usual.

“I’d like that.” Louis’ lips quirk up in a small, unsure smile. He hopes that’s the right answer. The suspense kills him, and when Harry opens his mouth, Louis’ heart stops beating for a second.

“Yes, I’d like that, too.” Louis lets out a breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. His grin spreads until it spreads to his whole expression, eyes crinkling as he goes back to his own work on his laptop.

“Cool.” Louis lets out a giggle, and Harry squeezes his ankle in reassurance.

 

.

 

Louis finally tells his friends and family about him and Harry after he comes back home from a brief promotion stint in the United States. Although he’s dead tired, he knows it’s the right thing to do, and it’s about time to tell them, too. The public, however, it a completely different story. Although they’ve discussed it, they haven’t yet reached a consensus about when they should come out to the whole world. It’s a huge decision, one that gives Louis anxiety every time he thinks about it too much.

Lottie and Fizzy freak out, of course. They kind of figured that something was going on, as well as the rest of his friends; he’s been happier these past few months, becoming more and more like his former careless, mischievous self. They’re on his ass because he didn’t tell them beforehand and it’s been about two months since he and Harry made it official… since they’ve become proper boyfriends _._ His younger twin sisters, however, don’t seem to care much about Harry. They weren’t too surprised by Louis’ announcement.

They’ve been moving slow, much slower than the first time they got together. They’re both so, so, _so_ scared of fucking up again. Taking it slowly had meant a whole lot of second firsts: second first kiss, second first date, second first time.

Life has decidedly gotten better for the two of them now that they’re dating. It feels like a breath of fresh air like an anchor has been lifted off of Louis’ chest, like he’s seeing in color, like he’s fucking _alive_.

Lottie and Fizzy pester him as soon as they reunite at Doncaster Sheffield Airport, demanding to know about all the details of how this had come to be. He rolls his eyes, but gives in, nevertheless. They’ve always been intrigued with his relationship with Harry; this time is no exception. Louis shares as much or as little as he wants for every question they ask in the ride back to the Tomlinson house. The car is never filled with a moment of silence. Someone is always talking or laughing, and Lottie gets scolded more than once for being distracted while driving. Even so, the bombardment of questions gets draining after a while, until all he wants to do is look out the window and observe the view

Lucky for him, the ride from the airport to their home isn’t too long of a drive. The rest of his siblings wait for him at home, and he greets them individually with a long hug and a kiss on the cheek. It’s clear that it’s been too long since he’s last visited home, and the rest of his family agrees with him.

He excuses himself to his bedroom as soon as they get to the house, explaining that he’s tired after his long flight from the states. They leave him be, promising that they’ll come back later for more.

Once the door to his bedroom is shut, he immediately goes to Facetime Harry. He lays on his bed, head resting on his arm which rests on top of his pillow. His other hand holds his phone close to his face. It rings for a bit before Harry picks it up. No matter what time it is, he always does.

“Hiiiiiiiiiiiii,” says Harry. His face lights up in a wide grin as soon as he sees Louis. He smiles back, something small but intimate. His eyelids feel heavy. He’s already trying to blink away the sleep, already drowsy from lying on his very comfortable bed. To be honest, he actually _is_ kind of tired from his flight.

Hi, Baby,” Louis replies back. “How are you?”

“I miss you a lot.”

Louis sighs. “I miss you, too, I can’t wait to see you soon. At least I’m back in England, I’ve missed driving on the left side of the road.” His lips quirk up as he watches Harry snort at his small jab at the states. It’s times like this, of quiet intimacy and soft tones despite their distance, that Louis has missed with all his heart.

“I hope you don’t mind but I’m thinking about coming down to Doncaster tomorrow or the day after.”

Louis’ breath catches in his throat out of excitement. As sleepy as he is, he can’t help the ever-expanding smile on his face. He shifts to sit up and rest on his elbows in order to get a better look at Harry. “Really?” he asks. He can’t help the hopefulness that leaks into his voice.

“Mmmhm,” Harry confirms.

“I’d love that.”

Harry chuckles. “Yeah, I thought you would. I gotta see when I’ll be able to, though, because I’m going to the studio tomorrow, but I’ll drive down later that night if it’s not too late.”

“Yaaaaaaaaay.”

Louis’ eyes crinkle until he can barely see as Harry laughs again, like a wonderful, bright windchime. His boyfriend is like a little ball sunshine, always, a beautiful, chocolate-haired nymph. Is it too early in the relationship to say _I love you?_ Because Louis is pretty sure he does. Pretty sure he’s never stopped since nine years ago.

“Louis? Babe?” Louis has to force his eyes half-open. His eyelids are so heavy that it’s tough to do so. “You’re falling asleep on me.” He hums before shutting his eyes again. They don’t seem to want to do anything else but stay closed. “Go to sleep, I’ll call you tomorrow morning.” Louis doesn’t need any more permission than that, and he falls asleep with three little words resting on the tip of his tongue.

 

.

 

Louis isn’t the most sensitive man out there. In fact, he’s far from it. He can be cocky and annoying and loud and mischievous and is able to get his way in almost anything. So, therefore, there’s no reason why he should be letting all these negative comments bring him down.

There’s not even a lot of them, just a lot of anonymous faces on Tumblr and Twitter who like to complain. No one knows that they’re together yet - they can’t, as they haven’t told anyone but their closest friends and family. But they’ve seen the numerous pictures of them together that had been leaked online, and have assumed the most extreme.

People like to discuss a lot of things, like how Harry deserves better than Louis, how Louis is a fuck-up who knocks up with girls only to get back together with his ex, how Louis will never be good enough, and how disgusting other people are for believing that Harry and Louis are together. All of it breaks his heart.

Never before has he cared so much about what other people think about him. But it’s late at night and Louis lays on his couch, huddled under the blankets while scrolling through Tumblr and watching reruns of brain-melting shows like _Friends_ and _The Simpsons_.

He’s online after seeing an article from The Daily Mail about how Harry and his _lady friend_ are out having lunch. The write-up doesn’t do anything but insinuates that they’re dating, yet the dagger in his gut twists. He forces himself to ignore it, despite the nagging it causes. It’s just a publicity stunt, like the rest of the girls they’ve both dated. Like his own girl.

The worst part about this, he thinks, is that he _knows_ that Harry and the girl aren’t real, yet the way that The Daily writes about them makes it feel so genuine anyway. Jealousy bites him hard, and his mood goes downhill almost immediately. He remembers why there was so much tension in their relationship. Long distance and pressures like these were hard burdens to carry for seven years.

There’s a reason why he and Harry used to go on Tumblr. They love the drama, the tea, the discussions and how invested and dedicated their fans are, even if they aren’t 100% right. He loves the edits and the gifs and the art they make of them - _for_ them. But it’s times like these where everything comes out to play, when their fans are divided in half, calling bullshit on the other side.

All of this happens because of Louis and Harry’s relationship.

The pictures of Harry and the girl together are all over Tumblr. Some people _insist_ that they aren’t together - they aren’t, of course - while others are gushing over how adorable the “couple” looks and how those that still think Harry and Louis are in a relationship are crazy. _Crazy_ , can you believe that? Louis clenches his jaw. No one should ever be called crazy for assuming things like this, especially his own fans.

He can’t help reading those comments. They sting, but Louis is masochistic enough to like the pain, he supposes, because he continues to read them and make himself feel like shit nonetheless. The more he reads, the more he begins to doubt himself, because why would Harry ever like someone like him, who can’t sing, who isn’t even _half_ as attractive as Harry, who is obnoxious and aggravating and unworthy?

 _Unworthy_.

He’s not a dumbass; he knows that these people know nothing about him and Harry. He knows that he is _so_ worthy of having a man like Harry Styles, who he loves to absolute pieces, but he feels like he isn’t. He hates himself for it.

He gets another uncomfortable twist in his gut and chest, and he’s restless. He’s itching to do something - _anything_ , for fuck’s sake. It’s past midnight, but Louis kicks off his blanket to get up to grab his hoodie. He needs a smoke. He needs to take a walk. He needs to fucking breathe.

Their recent public sightings together have sparked rumours again, which is not good for his poor heart that’s _just_ managed to piece itself back together. There are as many people who don’t believe that they’re dating as there are that do. The whole drama is getting to his head, because he knows what people say about him. He admits that he’s not the best singer and was probably the worst in the band, and he can tolerate that criticism, to an extent. But when people start talking about how he’s not good enough for Harry, that’s when he almost loses it.

He wishes that all this stuff didn’t get to his head, but they do, and it makes him so upset. Maybe everything people are saying is true. The more he reads about what they have to say, the more they seem like reality.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve Harry.

Maybe Harry deserves someone better, someone happier and less emotional and selfish and someone who’s not caught up in so much drama.

He tries not to think about the way his chest clenches and he tries his best not to cry, but it’s hard. Everything is so fucking hard.

Why is he letting these assholes get to him the way they do? He _knows_ he’s good enough for Harry, that he deserves Harry and that Harry deserves him. He knows they’re perfect for each other; they were four years ago, and they still are now… right? People might change, but that doesn’t mean that they have to be incompatible.

He doesn’t want to call Harry and bother him so early in the day, as Harry’s in L.A., attending a birthday party to some man Louis doesn’t know, and Louis is back in the UK. There’s an eight hour time difference that separates the two of them. Instead of interrupting Harry’s warm weather and celebratory days, he grabs his pack of cigarettes with trembling fingers before heading outside. It’s been almost four months since he’s even thought about touching a cigarette. That’s about the same amount of time he and Harry have been dating for.

The door locks with an automatic _click_ as soon as he shuts it. He jogs down the steps of his front porch and doesn’t slow down until he hits the pavement of the London sidewalks. In the dead of the night, it is silent outside other than the sounds of his own breathing. The weather is brisk since it’s mid-November, but Louis appreciates the cold. It forces him to think about something other than his problems.

He chain smokes the rest of the pack as a way to distract himself further. Once he’s done with the pack, he crushes the box, disgusted at himself. If Harry saw him like this, what would he say? He’d probably be disgusted, too.

The more he walks, the more he warms up, and with nothing lit between his lips, Louis’ mind begins to connect his thoughts into coherent ideas. There has always been that nagging part of his brain that shakes his confidence whenever he starts feeling too good about himself. It demands to know why Harry would ever put up with his bullshit again. It questions their ability to withstand.

The reason why they broke up was that they weren’t able to handle the pressures of being closeted anymore. What makes a second chance any different? Though they have grown and matured these last couple years, deep down, they are still the same people as they’ve always been. Maybe this time, they won’t get seven years together. Maybe it’ll only be seven months before they break and fall apart again.

Maybe the online hate is the last thing required to set him over the edge of panic and doubt. Before he knows it, he’s trying his best not to cry in front of the entirety of a sleeping London. His chest rises and falls, breath coming out in short, rapid staccatos, until he is dizzy from the lack of sufficient oxygen.

_Fuck it._

As the world turns around him, he fumbles for his phone. His fingers are too fat to tap the screen properly. They feel numb and cold, and he can barely hold onto his phone from the amount that they’re shaking. The phone rings loudly in his ear, pressed flush to his face. It is an alarming sensation of cold against his cheek that is harsh and unwelcoming.

“Louis!” Harry greets from the other side. He sounds excited. There is a lot of sounds that come through the speaker as well - cheers, singing, and laughter - that let Louis know what’s going on in L.A. at the moment. Guilt settles in the pit of his stomach for taking away Harry’s happiness. He should be having fun, not consoling his pitiful boyfriend.

Louis’ throat constricts. He can’t force the words out of his mouth, and he can feel his panic rise back up through his chest until he can barely breathe. There are tears that are threatening to spill from his eyes. As he stands there in the middle of the pavement, he realizes that he doesn’t know what to say.

This call was supposed to make him feel better, not _worse_.

“Louis?”

It takes him a long time before he can respond. “Hi,” he says, voice weak and trembling. He’s terrified that if he says anything more than that, he’ll start sobbing into the receiver.

“Lou? Baby? Are you alright?” Harry’s agitation is clear, even if his words are hard to hear from all the commotion happening around him.

Louis doesn’t want to tell him the truth, that no, he’s not alright and that he’s been doubting his worthiness for the past hour because of some spiteful fans. Harry doesn’t need to carry his burden. This is Louis’ problem, not Harry’s.

“I miss you,” he whispers instead of what he actually meant to say. His heart clenches in his chest. He’s so dumb for letting strangers on the Internet get to him like this.

“I miss you too,” Harry says, soft and gentle. The background noise seems to have died down. He must’ve moved to a quieter room. “I’ll be back soon, you know how it is - promos, publicity stunts, paparazzi pictures…. Even this blasted party’s got _paparazzi_ written all over it.”

“I know, I just wish they didn’t have to happen…” Louis pauses. Silence fills the air between them, and they share a feeling of understanding. “I don’t like seeing you with her,” he finally admits, quiet but honest.

Harry sighs. “I know, I don’t know it either. But you know it doesn’t mean anything, right? You’ve had my heart for the last nine years.”

Louis can’t help but ask, “Even during our split?”

“ _Especially_ during our split. You know, I counted every single day we were apart.” There’s something about the way Harry says it that makes it sound serious and also like a joke, and Louis smiles just a little.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Those words mean all the world to Louis. His heart flutters, and he can’t help but feel better. It’s not exactly what he wanted to hear, but it’s able to relieve some of the weight on his chest nonetheless. He feels like he’s able to breathe again. His fingers have stopped shaking by this point, but this doesn’t mean that he’s not cold. He’s freezing, but his insides feel warm. It’s time to head home after his long walk.

As he turns to go back the same way he came, Louis mumbles through the phone a soft, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Harry asks, seeming confused. Louis bets that if he could see Harry, he’d have the biggest furrow between his eyebrows.

Louis hums. “Nothing,” he says, and Harry drops the subject. The words _“I love you”_ hang in the air between them, unsaid but still recognized. He swears that he can see hearts in the fog that he breathes out.

Maybe things will turn out okay after all.

 

.

 

Finally, fucking _finally_ , Louis’ album is released. That morning, he wakes up to find Harry’s mouth wrapped around his dick, and he groans, lacing his fingers through Harry’s curls and letting himself succumb to the bliss. It’s going to be a good day, indeed.

He and Harry sit together under a blanket on his couch, scrolling through Tumblr and Twitter together to see what people have been saying about it, legs tangled together as they lean on each other. Louis has managed to situate himself in a position that allows him to Harry’s chest as a pillow without sitting on him.

Tumblr is a fucking mess on the day of release. Everyone is typing in all caps, freaking out and crying (Louis can’t manage to figure out whether they mean it literally or not), and overall just being very dramatic. It’s quite endearing. He wants to hug every single blog on the website.

The first thing he sees when he goes on Twitter is #LT1 trending worldwide. There’s so much positive feedback about his album, and Louis is crying tears of joy because his heart is so overwhelmed with happiness and pride. Harry just wipes them away and peppers his still-damp cheeks with gentle kisses from soft lips.

Louis laughs hard at a lot of these people’s posts, and so does Harry, but he’s elated that they enjoy his songs. He enjoys them, too.

Niall, Liam, and Zayn call to congratulate him on his new album. He thanks them with all of his heart and admits that it's been a long run for him. He’s glad that they’re all still on good terms, even if the five of them haven’t met up in ages.

“You deserve the best,” Niall says over the phone. “Oh, by the way, everyone I’ve talked to loves this album. Louis, this is the album of the fucking century, and even my mom agrees with me. But don’t tell Harry I said that; he’ll get mad at me because I said that _his_ was the album of the century. He’s with you right?”

Louis looks to his left. Harry’s got his tongue peeking out of his lips as he taps at his phone, probably texting someone.

“Yes, he is.”

Harry looks up at him, eyebrows raised. They make eye contact and Harry’s lips quirk up in a small smile. He points to himself, lips mouthing out a simple, _“Me?”_

Louis nods, and Harry reaches down and squeezes Louis’ knee and pulls a silly face. Louis snorts and rolls his eyes in fondness. He’s got such a big smile on his own face that makes up for Harry’s weirdness.

“Tell Harry that I say hi. And don’t tell him that I think your album is better than his; he’ll kill me for that,” Niall continues.

“Will do. Thank you. I love you. Bye, Ni,” he says before hanging up. He then looks at Harry, who’s still watching him with his lips quirked upwards. His eyes seem to sparkle in the light, or maybe Louis is just imagining it.

With a serious look, he says to his boyfriend, “Niall says my album is better than yours. And that my fans are better than yours because mine don’t want to shove my dick down their throat.”

Harry shoves him, just hard enough to sway him. “Shut up,” he laughs, “and it’s not my fault that everyone wants a piece of me. I’m _irresistible._ ”

Louis laughs and shoves him back, hard, before crowding into Harry’s personal space, hand resting on the nape of his neck as they kiss. “I am blessed to have such a humble man as my boyfriend,” he murmurs before their lips meet again.

 

.

 

Harry likes to complain about Louis’ scruff, about how it’s really rough against his thighs and about how scratchy it is when Louis puts his head on his naked chest. But Louis knows that Harry secretly likes the coarseness of it against his skin when he gets eaten out because Harry’s just weird like that. He’s into the occasional roughness and lovebites and bruises and stuff like that, and Louis isn’t complaining.

He doesn’t shave it until it starts growing long. Harry complains about that, too, about how he misses Louis’ stubble but loves how smooth his face finally is. He says that Louis looks “bloody hot” with it, which Louis can’t really deny because he likes how he looks with it, too. It’s an endless cycle of Harry being upset about his facial hair. He must be crazy to find it endearing.

 

.

 

They do eventually come out to the general public.

It happens after long months spent discussing ideas, terms, and everything in between with management and their label and everyone else on both of their teams. Together, they decide when the perfect time to come out would be, since Louis and Harry are both just weeks away from touring their new albums - Harry with his second, Louis with his first. Everything is exciting and daunting at the same time.

It causes such a massive shitstorm over social media. Many of their fans on Tumblr and Twitter have called it since day one. Louis likes to imagine how much they’re celebrating their relationship. He hopes everyone that undermined him and Harry realizes how wrong they were.

Harry and Louis don’t go into the details about their relationship, but Harry confirms that the songs he wrote on his first album are still valid in a BBC radio interview - all the heartbreak and sorrow and loneliness and love have always been genuine experiences. Other than that, however, his lips continue to remain sealed about the meanings of his songs. That sends their fans into even more of a frenzy, throwing themselves headfirst into theories about how Louis fits into these songs.

Coming out is a long process that Louis wasn’t prepared to go through until it happened. Of course, he’d always wanted to - it’s something long past due - but there’s so much work that needs to be done so they don’t tarnish his or Harry’s name. It involves _many_ long interviews, hundreds of hours, and sleepless nights for Louis, but he knows it’s worth it at the end. It’s always going to be worth it if he gets to hold Harry’s hand in public.

The general public seems to be taking it well; haters lash out about their fake girlfriends and homophobic bullshit, and Louis tries not to care too much about what they say. They don’t know anything but what the media wants them to know, and oftentimes, whatever they to say about them is twisted to fit a certain image they want to portray. Haters don’t know about the struggles they went through, together and individually. All Louis can do is hold his head high and not let them bring his spirits down.

The best thing about coming out is the support - not only from his friends and family and fans, but from everyone across the fucking globe. He didn’t expect their response to be so widespread, but it’s clear that he underestimated the impact they have on people. #HLComesOut trends on Twitter for bloody _days_ , just because people can’t grapple with the fact that two of the members of the biggest boy band are actually dating each other. To be honest, Louis still can’t either, and he’s one of the people in the damn relationship.

There’s no more speculation between the two of them because it’s a _reality_. This reality is something that people have been wondering, debating, and theorizing about for years. That concept sends tingles running through his toes and shivers down his spine.

He looks over at Harry. _His_ Hazza, who is giving the interviewer his undivided attention as he explains why they decided to come out now and not earlier, sitting flush against him on a couch. The light frames Harry’s face perfectly, illuminating his green eyes and shining the strands of his hair.

Harry gestures vaguely about something. Louis hasn’t been paying attention to a word he’s talking about. He’s got better things to do than waste his time listening to him talk about something they’ve discussed multiple times before, such as admiring the view in front of him. Louis grins widely, even if he’s not sure what’s going on in the discussion, knocking his knee against his boyfriend’s.

 _Boyfriend_.

It’s been months, and he still can’t get over the fact that he can call such an amazing man like Harry his boyfriend.

Harry pauses in the middle of his sentence to look back at Louis, who’s still giving him a fond expression. His eyes soften and his lips turn up in a small grin as he pats Louis’ cheek, right in front of the cameras, cupping his jaw for just a moment before returning to what he was talking about. Such an intimate moment will always be captured on film. Something about that makes sends sparks of joy through his whole body.

He’s got one thought that runs through his head at this moment. Right here, sitting next to the man he loves the most, Louis is the happiest man alive.

**Author's Note:**

> If you guys liked this, please send me love! If you want to see more of me, you can find me on tumblr[ here](https://ltvinyl.tumblr.com). Thanks for reading this. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope you enjoyed this. Big love xx.


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